The Flame Rises
by The Power of The Book
Summary: Chapter Eight - Tensions and unrequited longings in Ost-in-Edhil. Story is AU with Silm. references, but non-Silmarillion readers need not fear confusion.
1. The Beginning

Author's Pre-Story Note

Hello, All!

If you're reading this, which means, I assume, that my summary or title caught your eye, I hope I won't disappoint you. I am putting quite a bit of effort into "The Rise of the Flame," which will be the first story in a series of fictions based on a "what if?" scenario about the family of Feanor, and will continue into the Third and Fourth Ages.

This is based mainly in the events leading to, during, and after the war waged by the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. I realize that most of the fiction in this particular category is based on the War of the Ring. If you think I should move this to the Silmarillion category, don't be afraid to tell me. My ego could use some deflating. If you haven't read the Silmarillion or the Unfinished Tales, worry not, I will make any past history clear.

Speaking of offense, there will be deviations from canon in this story. I will list them at the end, to show that I understand what I'm mucking about with. There will be deviations from canon in later stories, and I will mark them down as well. But I hope that you can forgive that, and give me your honest critiques of my story. Flame me, blast me, constructively criticize me, praise me if I deserve it, but response is very much appreciated. Oh, and the reason this fic is rated "R" will be for future goriness and intense action - no smut will you get from me. At least in this particular story... 

Since much of my writing is inspired by music that I listen to - Bulgarian Women's Chorus, all the Xena Warrior Princess Soundtracks, the LOTR soundracks - I will include it if a particular passage in my tale seems to correspond with the movement. 

I can promise you drama, mystery, action, gory scenes, humor, and yes, even a bit of incidental romance. And angst...oh, there's going to be angst...

If I haven't totally screwed up and scared you away from reading this story altogether, please turn to Chapter 1! If I have, then it was kind of you to read my rattlings, and you have my sympathy.

The Power of the Book 


	2. Warfare on All Fronts

Standard Disclaimer - Tolkien's World. Not mine. Wish it was.

**_The Flame Rises_**

Prologue:

When the fate of the Middle-Earth was yet undecided, when Sauron the Deceiver yet retained the One Ring, when the valiant forces of the Last Alliance made a final stand against him - this is where another history begins.

Every plan must have a contingency option - a final weapon to use as a last resort, the worst-case scenario alternative. Not necessarily does it need to ensure the survival of those who devise it. It is a wise option - the best commanders and strategists will always have at least one or two daggers up their sleeves. 

Sauron was wise.

Perhaps not wise enough, though.

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Chapter 2 Warfare on All Fronts

Imladris, 3441, Second Age

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Background Music: (Track 18: Dream Worker: Xena Warrior Princess, Vol. I)

She walked through a dreamscape. Of that, she was aware.

That fact was more a nagging worry in the back of her mind, more instinct than conscious thought. Right now, her mind concentrated on the indescribable beauty she was surrounded by. 

She was in Valinor, and though she had never lain eyes on the great Elven haven, though she had known only Middle-Earth all her long life, instinct again made this fact undeniable.

Beauty and light was the rule here, rather than the exception. Unable to see her feet, she knew that stood upon the bow of a great white ship. Unable to hear the people on the docks below her, she knew that they argued loudly. 

One gathering of people, dressed in rough seafaring garb, had their backs to her, as they fanned out in front of the ships. Their posture was stiff, not exactly defensive, but wary, as they faced another group - _the first Elven army_ - in a standoff.

The army was dressed in fine armor, the first swords every hewn resting idly on their hips. Red cloaks ruffled restlessly, buffeted by the suddenly chill wind that blustered through an otherwise warm day. 

Her attention shifted to the leader of the army, a tall, black-haired _benn*_. His face, underneath a golden helmet with red plumes, might have been exceedingly handsome if it had not been twisted in anger. Seeing such undiluted fury on another's face might have caused her to step back in alarm, if she could have moved, rooted to the spot as is the case in so many dreams. His eyes, however, gray as slate and burning with deadly fire caused her to quail in fear. 

Flame...grey eyes..._it was Feanor_! She cried out, voicelessly. Instinctively, her eyes sought out the seven _ benn_ arrayed behind Feanor, his seven sons. All red of hair and adorned with plumed helmets, she nonetheless was able to find her father's face, even standing next to his identical twin as he was. She stared with horrible fascination at the scene unfolding before her. But perhaps it would not be today...perhaps she was not looking at past history.

Perhaps she was not looking at one of the worst events ever to befall Elven-kind.

The army shifted restlessly, looking past the Elvish sailors to gaze desirously, hungrily at the white ships, the epitome of Telerin* craftmanship.

She used this distraction as a way to break her gaze from her father's stolid visage. Following the gaze of the army, she looked up in admiration at the white ships of the Teleri. 

From bow to stern, the ships were slender and well-formed, swan-like and virginal in their appearance. Lightly sanded wood - had they painted it? was there a tree that bore white wood? - curved lithely in graceful arcs to complete the body of the ship. Sails of stout woven linen, pure and unstained by any weather or natural occurrence, shifted as restlessly as the army did, uncertain of their purpose.

As she moved her fascinated reverie of the ships down to look at the mooring ties, where white rope tethered the ships to shore, she knew instinctively, as one does in a dream, that something was about to happen, and yet she could not lift her head to watch.

The flash of red blood against the white wood of the ship was like lightning against a night sky. It splattered on the bow, staining it a sinister shade of red. 

As if that had been the signal, she was finally able to jerk her head upwards to look at the Elves. 

The blood had come from the corpse of an Elf, as he lay crumpled on the ground, head at an unnatural angle - she willed herself not to look at his cut throat. His blood, however, was spilling out and surrounding the boots of his slayer. 

The first Elf to slay another Elf - the unpardonable crime - was first committed by Feanor, and this was him, the first Kinslayer, and this was his first killing. He was soaked in the blood of his victim, the thick blood making a mockery of his beautifully crafted armor. His face was grim, but determined, the fire in his eyes undimmed. Her eyes looked at the seven sons behind him - yes, they too had been splattered in blood, not one spared from the taint of their father's deed. Her father looked pale, but as determined as his own father. As the joined battle with the stunned Teleri, a touch at her arm sent a wave of panic and alarm through her.

"Cousin?" The word did not come out, but there was Celebrimbor, smiling at her, drawing her attention from the murderous fury below. It had been years since she had seen him, but he was as whole and mature as ever he had been - but wait, that couldn't be. 

Celebrimbor had only been a child when this terrible day, the first Kinslaying, had occurred. How was it that he was here as an adult...a movement from Celebrimbor caught her attention. 

He was pointing at the blood-spatter on his white tunic.

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But you weren't a Kinslayer, cousin, and neither am I! The words refused to come out, but Celebrimbor seemed to understand. With the sad smile he sometimes wore when heartsick, he pointed at her heart.

With sick dread, she looked down.

Across her breast was splattered the lifeblood of the first Elf to be murdered by another Elf. 

Caffrawen's dream exploded in a desperate, hopeless scream.

Her eyes flew fully open, and she heard the scream continue, but realized it to have come from her own throat, and halted it.

She drew deep breaths to calm the wild terror of her heart, trying desperately to block out the dream-images. She felt a sudden wetness through the cloth of her bed-sheets, and looking down, saw the flash of deep red against white in the starlight.

Unable to repress the start of terror, she groped madly for her bedside candle, and lit it with trembling fingers with an ember from the fireplace. Bringing the light close to her bed, she examined the sheets. 

Juice. Nothing more than the glass of fruit juice that she'd set on her bedside table. Her arms, flailing as they could not in the dreamscape, must have overturned the glass onto her sheets.

Relief washed over Caffrawen like an icy kettle of water, and left in its wake a bit of consternation at her unruly behavior. Acting like a little Elfling, afraid of her dreams!

Well, she'd do penance for it through washing. She groaned, knowing that the first person to pick up a laundry basket was expected to fill it up with other's laundry, and wash that as well. 

Caffrawen looked out her window at the pre-dawn sky, sunlight just beginning to warm the black sky with shades of grey and pink hues. Not altogether a bad morning to be spent outdoors, and perhaps, if she let it, the beauty of the day could dispell the fury of the night.

***

Caffrawen trudged up the rough-hewn rock stairs that formed a small path up to the communal house of Imladris, shifting her willow basket of water-heavy linen to rest on her other hip. Bright morning sunshine bathed the cloven valley in gentle warmth, and burned into Caffrawen's eyes as she overlooked the army settlement of Men who had joined the Elven armies. From the little alcove she stood in, above the Ford of Bruinen, she counted one hundred and fifty tents set up in rows of fifteen on the grassy pavilion. 

How many men were in each tent? More to the point, what was the fighting strength of Elendil's army? Caffrawen ground her teeth and firmly suppressed the thought. Worrying would not provide a solution, or so she'd been told. 

A few soldiers strode across the campground, carrying what looked like provisions. Caffrawen could hear the rest of the army further down the vale, a sound that registered the many complaints of metal striking metal, and the curses and grunts of men in training. Intrigued, she tipped her head forward a bit to listen more closely. What she heard was not a cacophony of war-noise and animal snorts, but something akin to a rough song;

"Good, good! Now, try blocking this..."

The clash of swords registered musically, and the ensuing parries kept a rhythm of steady clinks.

"D'you have ale-froth between your ears? You can't throw a spear under-handed! Not unless you want to..."

A horse whinnied in the distance. 

The twang of bow-strings sounded like a one-note harp.

"A fine day we'll bring to them soon!"

"Aauugh! Idiot! That was my knee!"

The chime of swordplay was interspersed with the almost animal growling of the combatants involved. A number of unprintable curses and oaths punctuated any silence left behind in the wake of a noisy, productive army-camp.

Caffrawen found herself alternately marveling at Elendil's camp, and wondering about her own reaction to it. Elves generally shied away from the earthier aspects of mankind as a rule, but there was something so _familiar_ about those sounds, that she stood there, rooted to the spot. 

Another sound registered in her ears, the sound of soft footsteps from around the bend of the path. Turning, Caffrawen saw a black-tressed head stealthily peering around a rock cleft, looking with avaricious curiosity at the man-camp in the vale. Sensing the presence of another, the maid - Seskiel - stepped around the boulder and faced Caffrawen.

"Did you go down to the Ford to do the washing?" she asked Caffrawen in a cutting tone.

"Yes." Caffrawen said steadily, a hint of warning in her own voice. Seskiel was a notorious gossip, but generally could be put in her place with a few well-placed referrals to Risielwen, the headwoman.

"Do you not know the danger in going alone near the man-camp? There is no telling what they are capable of - just yesterday, I heard that one of the other maids was out walking and saw some of the men drunk! She was okay - but said they were loud and cursing and spitting and -".

"Seskiel, how far was she from the men?"

"Across the river and up the stairs. She saw them from the landing on the stair above this one." Seskiel's eyes were wide and bright - not with terror, but with a curious sense of joy and daring.

"Did the men see her?"

Seskiel shifted uncomfortably. "No."

"Then how was she in any danger?"

Seskiel's eyes gleamed. "You were much closer than she was. Did you see anything?"

"I saw tents. I saw battle-gear. I saw the river as I washed this linen. I can hear the men out on the practice field."

"You're not telling me everything! I'll bet you snuck down to the Ford to have a peek at the man-camp."

"I do not understand your continual fascination with the camp, Seskiel. It is a camp, like any other camp. Like the camp that Gil-galad has set up on the eastern vale. Why don't the other maidens work over that way if men frighten them?" Caffrawen hoped that with that parry, Seskiel would give up on trying to extract any information that she could twist to diabolical ends in her own mind. Fortunately, it did the trick.

"Yes, it is rather good that we have elves here to protect us, isn't it?"

Whether Seskiel meant that Gil-galad's army would protect them from Sauron's forces or from Elendil's, Caffrawen was not certain. Instead of pursuing the point, she made a noncommittal noise, nodded to Seskiel and continued up the stair. The terror of some maids at the arrival of the men had been a continual source of amusement to her in a time that brought little humor to anyone.

Caffrawen paused at the next landing and glanced toward Elrond's council rooms. He'd be closeted with Elendil and the generals most of the day. Idly, Caffrawen tried to view the happenings within the council chambers. Elrond, fearful of innocent-looking spies, had moved any war council indoors. Through the one opening, a doorway, Caffrawen could only see two bearded generals, arms crossed and listening to what was being said. One nodded vigorously at some point or another, the other was listening so intently, she could swear that his ears had extended from his head. A shadow passing over the doorway belonged to Gil-galad, his arms gesturing in graceful sweeps the advantage of one battle tactic over another.

Telling herself it was useless to spy on a council when she could hear no words, Caffrawen moved on up the rocky slope. Officially her home, since her own hands had helped to build it, Imladris brought her a scarce quantity of the comforts that homes were supposed to provide; love, acceptance, and warmth. The cold morning sun touched the pearly stone rock-work of the elven colony, lending it an ethereal white glow among the dark green of the summer foliage, and though this moment of refined beauty touched her heart, Caffrawen found it a poor substitute for her home of old.

Ost-in-Edhil, the Elven-city. Eregion, her dearest memory, redolent with the spicy aroma of holly-trees, the crisp hilltop winds that cooled a city overheated by the forges within. A city overheated by its own power. A city betrayed by a false friend. A city that betrayed itself. A city soon to become the first casualty in a long list..._think on it no more!_

Coming to the kitchen doors, Caffrawen found herself trembling, not from the strain of carrying a load of water-heavy material. Closing her eyes a moment, she composed herself, and opened the door with a firm kick to the lower half of the door.

"Ouch! Caffrawen! I'm on your side!" 

A dark-haired Elven soldier, rubbing his forehead ruefully, came out from behind the kitchen door. Still dressed in his shining metal armor, Caffrawen thought him rather handsome, with a roguish grin curling his finely molded features. He carried his helm in one hand, and twisted his thin lips in an amused fashion.

"Really? And why would a proud Elf-soldier be walking through the kitchen instead of the halls? You've no business here, Elimani. Unless that business has to do with the helm so respectfully doffed at your side." Caffrawen replied equably.

Elimani's grin faded just a bit, and the sideways dart of his eyes toward the helmet proved her correct.

Unable to keep her lips from curling upward in a smirk at his reaction to her guess, she reached forward, tilting the helmet enough to allow her the sight of at least a pan's worth of sweetbread, hastily stuffed within. Elimani sighed, and his shoulders slumped, but the roguish grin didn't leave his face.

"What gave me away?"

"Next time, hold the face of the helmet to your side. Sweetbread crumbs are falling out the eyeslits of your poor, misused helmet."

Elimani sighed again and attempted to step past the _elleth_,* but found his retreat blocked by a laundry-basket. 

He pursed his lips, but in annoyance or amusement, Caffrawen couldn't tell. Not that it mattered. 

"What's it going to cost me?" he asked in a tone of mock-dismay, crossing his arms over his chest, and dislodging a shower of sweetbread crumbs from the helmet's eye-slits as he did so.

What would it cost him? Hmm. The thought of making him take the slim archer's braids behind his ears and fastening them with pink bows for a day had its appeal. So did the thought of making him haul in those heavy sacks of grain for her to grind in the stone mill.

She opened her mouth to request the hauling of the grain sacks, but found herself momentarily at a loss for words when the metal of his helmet chinked against his iron mail.

Clink. Clink.

Clink. Clink.

She suddenly found herself reminded of the noises she had heard on the training field. 

Metal against metal.

Steel and sweat intermingled.

Curses and praises in the same breath.

"Caffrawen, I don't have all day to stand and watch you formulate a plan which involves me running naked through the man-camp and singing a hymn to the stars." Elimani's caustic tone interrupted her reverie. "Of course, if that is what you _truly_ desire to see me do..." He cocked an eyebrow suggestively, his lips twisting yet again.

Caffrawen managed to thump him in the ribs with the laundry basket hard enough to make him pay for the suggestion.

"Actually, I had something more appealing in mind." She had to grin at the frown that marred his handsome features.

"More appealing than me? Goodness, Caffrawen, what _could_ there be?" The skin around her eyes crinkled in merriment as he affected a ponderous gesture.

"The more you talk, the worse it gets. Tell you what, Elimani, I'll make you a deal."

The idea had sprung up of its own volition, indeed, when she reflected later on, she didn't understand the motives behind it.

"I'll bring you a pan of sweetbread, or whatever should come within your reasonable culinary fancies, if you teach me swordplay."

She was treated to a rare moment of Elimani's disconcertion. His mouth opened, his eyes widened, and every facial muscle seemed to retreat backwards, away from her. 

"What? Don't tell me that you're as bad as Elrond when it comes to females touching so much as a butter knife." 

Caffrawen spoke lightly, attempting to liven his features and get a response.

"No, no...I just, I mean, I thought that after...after what happened...that you wouldn't want to so much as pick up a sword, let alone learn how to wield it." 

Caffrawen ground her teeth in an attempt to quell the pain that welled upwards from Elimani's words. _Push it down, push it down..._

"It is precisely for that reason that I want to wield a blade with something resembling proficiency."

Elimani sighed, his handsome features drooping dourly. "Caffrawen, you know I'm not much of a swordsman. And if my archery skills were tested in battle, I'd probably hit more allies than enemies."

Setting down the infernally awkward laundry basket, Caffrawen gripped his right bicep with her left hand. His eyes widened at her use of the secret greeting, but second nature and a desire to echo the sentiment behind the gesture led him to grip her bicep in turn with his right hand. 

"You are Elimani of Ost-in-Edhil, defender of the Eldar and Middle-Earth, and honored member of the Gw...the Noldor. Whatever you do, I know that you do to the best of your ability." She gently let go of his arm before picking up the abandoned linen-basket, and turning to grin at him. "I expect you to have just as much faith in my baking!"

The remark had the desired effect. Elimani threw back his head and laughed. 

"So we have a deal, my fine soldier?"

"We do. I'll meet you by the stables after the evening meal. Caffrawen?" He paused, then quickly leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "Anytime you need someone to run naked through the man-camp and sing ballads, I will serve, free of charge." The grin lit up his face again as she laughed in turn.

With their wry comments, each had convinced themselves that they had made the other forget what had nearly escaped Caffrawen's lips.

"_You were an honored member of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain."_

***

Caffrawen grinned oddly to herself as he continued on his path behind her. She in turn resumed her interrupted errand, and shifted the basket to a more comfortable position on her hip. The communal kitchens area had been improved vastly since her arrival, when Imladris was naught but a pile of marble and a dream. They had evolved from pleasantly smoking camp-fires to roaring cooking-ovens, able to bake twenty-five loaves of bread (or lembas) at a time. Given the sizes of the armies encamped outdoors, they now roared every hour of the day.

Inwardly, she groaned. How was she going to find room in the ovens for all the sweetbread Elimani was likely to demand? And how long before a steady filching of supplies was discovered?

Her active mind intently working on solutions to this problem, the instinctual part of her mind took over to guide her past the wooden shelves of the back storerooms. Unconsciously navigating this maze, she did not note the approaching _elleth_ from behind a shelf overloaded with rye flour and wild rice. The inevitable collision with her was not violent, as neither _elleth_ had been traveling with much haste. The repercussions, however, were not so gentle.

"It would seem that foresight and awareness are two traits missing from your family line, Caffrawen. It was evident in the past generations, and has now been confirmed in the present generation."

Caffrawen steeled herself. It wasn't her fault that Cugufain* hated her so - and in some ways, it was. And Caffrawen knew all too well the pain and fury of losing a loved one to murder... She believed, deep within her soul, that Cugufain knew Caffrawen was innocent, but Cugufain's soul demanded that there be someone responsible for her pain, someone within her ability to strike at. So Caffrawen would bear her insults, knowing that she was not the intended target.

Unintended target or not, the ammunition still stung.

"I am sorry, Cugufain. My mind was elsewhere - I did not intend to bump into you." Perhaps, if she sounded apologetic enough, Cugufain would end it here, and there need be no recriminations.

Cugufain's eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed in eager anticipation of an opportunity to strike a blow for her loss.

"So many things in this life are not intended, _Seregwen_,* so many things. My brother's death, was that intended? Certainly they would not have come at him with swords if that was not their intention."

With a swift movement of her hands, Cugufain scooped up a handful of rye flour from an open sack, and with eager alacrity, threw it onto Caffrawen's basket. The flour instantly turned dark brown, as it absorbed moisture from the linens, creating a sticky mess that would need to be scrubbed out.

Caffrawen's expression did not change, her eyes hard, her lips slightly parted, as she debated whether it would be worth an argument.

"What was that really about, Cugufain?"

"What was it really about? My dear _gwenn_,* it was all about misplaced intentions. You see, I was aiming for your face."

With the same calm righteousness that she nearly always displayed, Cugufain stepped past her, lifting her skirts away, to avoid brushing Caffrawen's tainted ones. 

Caffrawen stood in place, her face stony, her teeth clenched. There was nothing to be done, nothing to be done...except go West...but she was denied even that...and would probably not receive a warm welcome even if she was allowed onto those shores.

The sound of something cracking broke her reverie. Glancing downwards, she was dismayed to find that the wicker handles on the basket were cracking, crushed by the weight of her restrained fury. 

The part of her that was not angry bemoaned this small action as evidence to support Cugufain's claims. The inherited capacity within her to destroy and demolish the innocent while enraged by a third party was an inherited one, never dormant.

Wrapping her arms around the damaged basket, Caffrawen began to haul it back to the Ford of Bruinen, forcing her anger and hurt into an effort at making her steps heavy. In Ost-in-Edhil, they had been understanding, even admiring. The thought of eternity in this cloven valley surrounded by Elves who hated her for her bloodline...

It was not easy, thus, to be the granddaughter and sole heir of Feanor, the first Kin-slayer.

***

No rye flour was wasted in the writing of this chapter. The author would like to note that the taste of Cugufain's famous Rye Bedsheets can be improved with a Zesty Italian Vinaigrette.

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* benn - elven male, elf-man

*Teleri - Sea-Elves, Elves that lived by or felt at home with the sea

*elleth - elven female, elf-woman

*gwenn - elf maiden, girl

*Seregwen - literally, "blood-maid", an insult, given Caffrawen's heritage

*Cugufain - "white dove" 

A/N: As promised, I am listing all deviations from Master Tolkien's writings.

- No grandchildren other than Celebrimbor were accounted to Feanor.

- No names of any of the members of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain were listed besides Celebrimbor.

- Caffrawen, Seskiel, Riseilwen, Elimani, and Cugufain are all author-invented characters.

- The Battle of the Last Alliance of Men and Elves at the end of the Second Age lasted for seven years. For plot purposes, I am speeding it up to about a two-week battle, culminating with Isildur's slicing of the Ring from Sauron's hand.


	3. The Welcome of Home

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Chapter Three: **The Welcome of Home**

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Ost-in-Edhil, around the year 800, Second Age

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A/N: This takes place about roughly 2,400 years before the events of the previous chapter. In this chapter is the recounting of the first time Caffrawen met Celebrimbor and Elimani. Keep your eye on the calendar!

Background Music: (Track 9: Return to Ch'in: Xena Warrior Princess, Vol. 6)

She had been apart from her people for far too long.

For an Elf, even fifty years in near-solitude could be too much to bear. Unless one counted the fact that life was often better, living alone in the forests and gently rolling mountains within Lindon. She could easily travel to Mithlond for supplies, or the benefit of brief conversation, when loneliness gnawed at her, worse than a belly full of writhing rats. 

If she kept the hood of her cloak over her distinctive red hair, then she generally could pass through the crowds of Elves in Mithlond that would see it as the trademark of her lineage. She needed not to endure their stares and angry glances. She needed not another orphaned Elf, no matter how old, to burst into tears at the sight of her auburn tresses, the reminder of the bane of their lost family members. 

All things considered, the balance that she kept by months-long absences was the best possible situation. It had been different when the remnants of the Hunting-Elves yet remained in Middle-Earth. They had known her parents, Amras and Elencala, and her father's twin, Amrod. They could regale her with tales of the adventures of the twins' hunting adventures, the life of her mother, the history of their people. Her people had filled in the holes left by the deaths of her parents and uncle.

They certainly instructed her in the tales of her grandfather, Feanor, and of her five other uncles. They instructed her in the reasons why she was treated by the other Elves in such a harsh fashion. Their tales were cautionary, and sympathetic. They were there for her to laugh with, to joke with, to hunt with. They had no qualms about embracing a descendant of Feanor when she was in need of a hug. They scolded her, taught her, loved her and kept her safe as the orphaned heir of their former leaders.

They were gone now. The longing for the bliss of Valinor was powerful, especially in the wake of the Kinslayings, and the wrath of Morgoth. 

They were gone, and she was alone.

Caffrawen had been living between the wild and Mithlond for about fifty years since the Hunting-Elves had crossed. She had been prepared to spend her life this way, living between worlds so as to not to overly upset the Elves that saw in her the heir of a murderous bloodline.

It wasn't until a passing reference to the region of "Eregion" was mentioned that she had even thought of seeking out the seeming last member of her shattered family. It wasn't until the thought of returning to live among her own people held any appeal for her until then.

Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel had founded and were currently leading Ost-in-Edhil, the new and grand Elven-city, built upon the foothills of the Western side of the Misty Mountains. Supposedly (and to the horror of many Elves), there was a great friendship struck up between the Elves of that city and the Dwarves of the nearby Dwarrodelf. The information that it was mostly comprised of Noldor Elves, those more sympathetic to her plight, was extremely fortuitous, as it gave her a new realm to visit, one in which she could cast off her cloak and still be received warmly by her kindred.

The information that her cousin Celebrimbor was now living there as Head Artificer in the great Forges of Eregion wiped all doubt from her mind. 

In its wake, it left her with a deep longing to finally meet her cousin, to reunite with the sole remaining member of her family. It filled her with a sharp awareness of how much she desired the company of others, the company of those who did not flinch when she turned to them.

Did_ he _face the same stares? What did _he_ think about their mutual heritage? Did _he _consider himself bound to the dread Oath*? 

Would he welcome her, or would he think her an unpleasant reminder of the past? She knew that he had been born overseas, that he could remember all the way back to the First Kinslaying. He would know firsthand the devastation that her family had wrought against their kindred.

Such questions occupied her mind on the road to Ost-in-Edhil.

It was a singularly beautiful country. In the pale pre-dawn of that morning, the tall grasses were colored a soft green. Morning glories, twining among the roadside grasses, were diffused to pastel shades. A veil of formless mist hovered indecisively over the grasses, debating if it was to settle on the life below it, or rise up to greet the dawning day. In the half-light, everything but the holly-trees seemed to be similarly affected. The holly, in turn, seemed to become deeper and darker than before, the contrast of dark and rough forms against light and yielding forms, heightening the mystique of the land. 

Being a Noldor, she already felt at ease in the landscape, unaccustomed to but strangely at ease in the wide plains. Forests did not bother her, but there was nothing quite like the knowledge that there was plenty of room to run, to breathe, to feel the wind run through her hair. 

She stopped to inhale deeply, the sweet scent of the grasslands intermingled with the slightly spicy smell of holly trees. Eregion was aptly named.

Chiding herself for being lost in thought, she did a quick survey of her surroundings. The ground was becoming more rocky, somewhat treacherous to the unwary traveler. She had been hiking in the valleys between the huge foothills of the Misty Mountains, every once in a while, getting a glimpse of the tall blue mountains as they loomed closer. 

Feeling a need to get her bearings, Caffrawen began an ascent to the top of the nearest foothill. Ost-in-Edhil had to be nearby, she'd traveled about the correct distance that the last family of farming Elves had instructed her to go to reach the new city.

If she'd overshot it...but she couldn't have...

The wind shifted to blow in from the south-east, and she caught a whiff of wood-smoke. Not just a whiff, she decided, but nearly a fog of the smell. Perhaps it was the city? 

Perhaps the next farmer's house had caught fire.

Caffrawen was not one much for omens or premonitions. Yet, as she crested the hill and looked to the southwest, she felt something within her soul shatter, and warmth suffused her like nothing she had felt since her parents' deaths.

The sun had just risen over the horizon, and it gilded the sky with its rays, and brightened the lush grass of the enormous hill before her to a soft jade carpet.

The white city before her, bathed in that same sunlight, framed against the majesty of the Misty Mountains, glowed as something unreal. Like a pearl set upon a bed of emeralds, Ost-in-Edhil was the treasure of treasures to behold in that land. 

For an indefinable reason, Caffrawen's heart rose up with the sun at her first sight of Ost-in-Edhil, crushing all indignities and slights, all grief and loss suffered in the past. If she could have slowed the moment, prolonged the beauty, she would have.

No matter what would happen in the future, whenever she attempted to recall Ost-in-Edhil, Caffrawen's mind would instantly remember this moment, sealed within her heart forever.

A thin column of smoke rose from the southerly corner of the city, bending as the wind urged it northwards, the source of the smoke scent from earlier on. 

She gave a small start of irrational fear - surely she couldn't have arrived here only to see it burn before her? But no, she chided herself, it was the only the smithy's fires - another good sign. Celebrimbor was there. Was he an early riser? That was a good sign in an Elf - eager to begin the day...or was it that he was obsessed with his work?

Groaning, Caffrawen upbraided herself for making guesses about a man she knew nothing of, save his name, current residence, and occupation. She'd know more about him if she stopped staring like a slack-jawed ninny and knocked on his front door.

That led to another school of thought - where _were_ the guards? She'd developed a skill at moving through the woods, first, to hunt with the Elves of her father's woodland colony, and later to escape detection from other Elves. But that had been in the thick forests of Lindon and the Blue Mountains, with many a leafy branch to muffle her retreat. On this mostly bald landscape, she knew that she should have been challenged by a guard a long time ago. Was Celeborn a complacent ruler? Such lack of anxiety did not bode well in land that still teemed with the Foul Folk, the black Orcs of Sauron.

Pressing forward and breaking her reverie of Ost-in-Edhil, Caffrawen stepped eagerly towards the city, the bounce in her step making her pack jounce against her back uncomfortably. Automatically, Caffrawen reached around for the strips of rope bound to each side of her pack, looping them around her waist and tying a rough knot, so that her smooth gait would not be affected. 

The city gates loomed closer, and Caffrawen could not tear her eyes from the graceful city. Belted by stone walls the color of cream, at least the height of eight grown Elves, she counted five large stone towers rearing up from different quarters of the city. Each pearly spike had a domed top, arching downwards to form great windows on all sides, pockmarked on the rest of the length downward with dark windows. Her eyes could make out the forms of Elves within, some in the process of readying themselves for the day, others walking past with the occasional glance towards the sunrise. 

Out of habit, Caffrawen immediately reached for the hood of her cloak, drawing the mossy green oilskin over her hair. Her hand did an unconscious sweep to push back any wayward auburn lock that could burn on her breast, like a brand to declare to all the world her heritage.

She drew near to the gate. No word seemed fitting to her mind other than _monstrosity_. Wrought of iron and reinforced with some unknown material that shone with the light of the stars, it towered at the height of ten grown Elves standing on each other's shoulders, and its width was enough for at least fifteen to walk abreast. The iron and - was it perhaps silver? - twisted and curled among the long support bars of the gates, giving the impression of vines, circling the crest of "silver" worked into the shape of a swimming swan. The symbol for the house of Celeborn, she remembered. Where gate met wall, there were planted two craggy holly-trees, and beside them both were two smaller gates, each made of the same "silver" and high enough to allow a tall Elf passage. 

Sensing the presence of other Elves, she realized that two were stationed at rock-slits beside those smaller gates, eyes intently watching her. 

Probably, she reflected, with bows in hand behind that marble wall. An arrow could easily pass out those slits - perhaps Celeborn wasn't so lax about security after all.

"State your name and purpose, if you please."

The voice came from the small gate to her left, and she drew near it. The question had been courteously stated, she reflected. That was a change, no more of that "Who goes there?" business she recieved at Mithlond. 

"I come to visit my kinsman." she said rustily, not withdrawing the hood from her hair. Inwardly she winced, hearing her voice grate from years out of practice of the skill of conversation.

The bright blue eyes from the slit blinked, reflectively.

"And your name, my lady?"

"Caffrawen." Would they recognize it? How well-known was it that Amras had had a daughter?

"And the name of your kinsman, my lady Caffrawen?"

Apparently not.

"Celebrimbor. I am given to understand that he is now Master Artificer for Ost-in-Edhil."

The eyes blinked again, and from their wideness, she believed their owner to be rather shocked. Inwardly, she groaned. If he were to deny her passage, she'd have to use more dramatic attempts to slip into the city.

To her surprise, the small gate swung open, and a tall brown-haired Elf stepped forward and bowed. As she had no skirt to curtsy with and return the gesture, Caffrawen shifted uncomfortably in her baggy trousers, and remained standing, feeling rather awkward.

The guard seemed not to notice. His eyes instead fixed on her hairline, and, to her further discomfiture, Caffrawen realized that when she had shifted, the hood of her cloak had slid back enough to reveal her copper-hued locks. 

A smile lighted the Elf's features, and he looked at her kindly, noting her discomfort. 

"My name is Failar. Would I be correct in assuming that you do not know your way around our fair city, my lady?"

His tone was welcoming, nay, merry! Caffrawen could only stare in surprise at this surfeit of courtesy from a strange Elf, then succeeded in biting her tongue as she choked out a "You would be."

The Elf turned his head and called to a place behind the guard's room. "Ohtan! Watch for me while I escort this lady to her family."

Caffrawen mentally kicked herself, then stammered out a demurral. "No, thank you, sir Failar. I assume I have only to walk towards the rising smoke?" 

At his nod, she continued. "Then as kindly as your offer is, I think I shall make my own way to my cousin's forges." 

"As you wish, my lady." A smile touched his lips, and Caffrawen found herself returning the gesture, surprised at the naturalness of the gesture from a stranger. 

He stepped back and allowed her to pass through. "A good day to you, lady Caffrawen."

"To you as well, sir Failar."

***

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Background Music: (Track 16: Traveling with Eli: Xena Warrior Princess, Vol. 4)

As she walked through the streets of Ost-in-Edhil, Caffrawen found herself automatically comparing Mithlond to Ost-in-Edhil, taking in the nuances, the mood, the relative demeanor of the city's inhabitants.

It should probably have gone without saying that Ost-in-Edhil won on every score.

Traveling down a cobbled street lined with homes and workplaces, she was amazed at the amount of vegetation she saw within a city of stone. Gardens bloomed with early summer flowers, towered over by sturdy firs and maples that were shielding vegetable gardens not yet ready for harvesting. The smell of some fruity roll baked for breakfast was causing her stomach to churn in yearning for nourishment. An _elleth_ nodded with a smile in her direction, taking note of the wandering stranger. A crowd of golden and black-headed children raced by Caffrawen with the careless abandon of the very young. A steady clack-clack noise issued from a weaver's garden, where a lithe, brown-haired _benn_ had set up his loom in the sunshine.

A small crowd of Dwarves, obviously headed towards the forges, stopped to chuckle at the antics of the Elflings, who in turn stopped to gape at them. One Dwarf, draped in heavy chain mail and carrying a heavy mallet on one shoulder, started imitating the Elflings, jumping up and down and squealing, which sounded rather absurd, given his baritone voice. He was joined in by the other Dwarves of his company. The Elflings, obviously delighted, started to imitate the dwarves, stooping over and mumbling in deep tones. The absurdity of the situation caught both parties, and the mixed bass and soprano laughter was surprisingly sweet in the morning air.

Caffrawen had seen Dwarves before, but never up close, and certainly never with such ease of spirit towards Elves. The few that lived in mansions on the outskirts of Lindon never approached Mithlond unless they absolutely had to. The same could be said of the Elves of the Grey Havens in their behavior towards the Dwarves.

It was so very, very different from the mournful atmosphere of Mithlond. The steady trickle of Elves leaving Middle Earth had permeated the entire city with an air of sorrow, as the Elves bid their final farewells to a land that they had fought to protect.

Here, in this center of industry and amicability, the Elves were still cheerful, still optimistic about their time in Middle-Earth. Untouched for the most part by sea-longing, they were content to brighten and enliven their corner of the world for as long as they could stay.

Caffrawen noticed with a start that she had not pulled her hood back over her hairline. What disconcerted her even more was the fact that she'd not gotten a glare, caused an outbreak of tears, or had anyone boldly challenge her right to be within the city. 

The forges loomed ahead, and upon closer inspection, Caffrawen realized that the forges and their surrounding warehouses took up nearly an eighth of the city. The central work-house was raised upon a platform, ivory stairs reaching up to grasp the luminous building of wonders and keep it from escaping the confines of the city. The Dwarves, several paces ahead of her, turned to tromp down an alleyway between two warehouses, headed towards the largest of the forge-fires.

Caffrawen strode up the stairs, stopping briefly at the top to look over her shoulder at the city spread out before her. Smiths and archivals strode about, carrying armfuls of metal to be worked, tools to be used, wood to stoke up the fires. A rythmic tapping and banging issued from the warehouse - the Song of the Smith, she supposed. This place was, she decided, the very heart of Ost-in-Edhil. Again, she pulled up the hood of her cloak past her hairline, and did another sweep to push back any errant strands.

The central work-house was, unsurprisingly, creamy in color, with a large, overhanging roof supported by thick white columns on all sides. As she stepped past them, the thought suddenly struck her that she had no idea of what her cousin looked like. She chided herself for thinking that it would be a mere matter of striding up to the biggest forge and introducing herself to someone who resembled her parents. 

Exploring onwards, she entered the work-house, looking for anyone who might possibly be able to tell her where Celebrimbor was. 

Passing through an archway, she encountered a _benn_ sitting at a large oaken desk, sorting through an assortment of sketches and notes on crackling parchment. His head bobbed up as she approached, and a charming smile lit his angular face, framed with long black hair. 

"Good morning, my lady. How can Elimani, slayer of sloppy handwriting and victor of many a duel with metal and hammer, be at your service today?"

Caffrawen felt her lips return the smile of their own volition, her anxiety eased by the kind gesture.

"I am looking for a _benn_ by the name of Celebrimbor. I am given to understand that he is Master Archival here. If you know, could you possibly point me in his direction?"

The _benn's_ - Elimani's - smile faded somewhat as he regarded her closely. 

"What is your business with the Master, my lady? If you don't mind me asking, that is."

"I do, for it is business with him alone that I wish. If you don't mind my refusal, that is," she returned equably.

Elimani's full grin returned, and he rose from the chair. "I will escort the Master to you. Unless perhaps he does not like the thought of being called like a hound to the whistle."

With that comment, he turned on his heel and strode quickly through a side hallway, but not before giving her a mocking half-bow, softened with a cherubic grin.

As his the sound of his footsteps grew softer, Caffrawen approached the desk, her eyes roving over the sketches. Swords, shields, chain mail patterns - all of these she recognized - but what was that long tube? And the winged thing, what was that? She began to read the side notes and scripts, carefully transcribed by someone, probably Elimani, into legible Sindarin from the indistinguishable scribble on the original notes.

Footsteps drew closer. She dropped the parchment that she had perused, and turned towards the archway that Elimani had exited through.

"Really now, Elimani, what's gotten into you? You could have at least asked her name, let alone the business she wants with me. Probably some mother requesting a bauble for her daughter's conception day." The light tenor voice, though softly attuned, was nonetheless audible as it was amplified in the echoing archway. 

Without any preamble, a red-haired Elf strode through the archway. Caffrawen's first impression was that of a very driven nature, of very determined spirit and highly focused attention. As his head turned in her direction, she was finally able to see his features in the light. 

Celebrimbor, Master Archival of Ost-in-Edhil, had certainly inherited her family's trademark feature. Bright red hair framed a wide face with mobile features, skin that was tanned and reddened from hours spent over the forge fires, and bright blue eyes. He was sturdily built, large biceps the evidence of much swinging of heavy hammers, in fact, one was carelessly gripped in a muscular hand. He was clothed in rough cotton, with a stained brown smock tied about his neck and waist. His eyes flickered towards her, lips curling in a brisk smile that was meant to send her on her way as soon as possible.

"My lady..." he broke off as she wordlessly pulled the hood from her head, revealing the red hair concealed within.

Caffrawen was rewarded with the sight of his eyes widening, his smile melting into an O of astonishment. The hammer slipped from nerveless fingers and clattered to the stone floor harmlessly.

"Elimani." Celebrimbor's voice was but a choked murmur.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Tell the others I will not be returning today."

Elimani was looking with confusion at both Caffrawen's hair and Celebrimbor's behavior, but jerkily nodded and left the room, pausing once more to glance at the pair.

***

"Caffrawen."

"How did you know my name?"

"Word gets around. How did you know to find me here?"

"Word gets around, Celebrimbor."

"Forgive me, I know we have not been properly introduced..."

"We have _never_ been introduced. I suppose that allowing this generation of Feanorians to meet and work together was not something that many of our people had in mind."

"Perhaps...I thought you had sailed West, that you had abandoned these shores. I _did _search for tales or traces of you, but when I heard that the Hunting-Elves had gone West, I assumed that you had gone with them. Otherwise..."

"I know. I should have come earlier, but did not hear of the foundation of Ost-in-Edhil till very recently. Or the fact that you were here."

"Really? Not to be conceited, but I would have assumed that our fair city would have been the gossip of Mithlond for a good long time."

"Red-haired Elves with woodland clothes and knives at their belts aren't generally welcome in Mithlond. Conversation is dry to nonexistent in that place - it seems better here."

"Indeed it is."

There was an uncomfortable pause. Celebrimbor dipped his head down a moment, but when he returned it to its former position, it bore a wide and rather mischevious grin. They broke into a fit of giggles, the tension between the two of them having vanished, evaporating in the sunlight slanting into the hall. Celebrimbor moved forward, his eyes very warm, and encircled her shoulders with a bulky arm.

"Cousin," he said warmly, "Let us go somewhere to catch up on each other's lives."

***

Whomever had designed the Smithing section of the city must have known something about the habits of those who worked with hammer and anvil. Caffrawen was almost amused to see the size of the kitchens and trestle tables for dining. She doubted that many smiths, as single-minded as they could be in their pursuits, saw too many meals outside of this chamber. 

"You've not eaten yet this morning?" Celebrimbor inquired courteously at her side.

"No. I haven't stopped since..." Caffrawen trailed off in thought, eyebrows knitted in concentration. When had she last stopped for a meal? A low chuckle interrupted her musings. 

"You'd make a good smith. I'd appreciate a cup of hot tea myself." 

He escorted her to a seat effortlessly, then turned to a _benn_ staffing the hearth. A quiet request produced two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of fruit and warm rolls.

Caffrawen, glancing about at her surroundings, caught Celebrimbor in the corner of her eye, watching her as he waited for the _benn_ to finish pouring. The expression on his face had no distinct category. Wonder, perhaps, with the widening of his eyes revealing just how much a surprise her entrance was. Consternation, maybe, the firm set of his lips betraying an incredulity at her forward behavior. Worry, most definetly, in his reluctance to take his eyes off her, lest she diappear as quickly as she had arrived.

Giving no signal that she had caught him watching her, she dipped her head down, then slowly turned her head in his direction, waiting to see what he would do. By the time her curious regard had reached him, he had already turned back to the _benn_, who handed him the small tray of breakfast foods.

Setting it down in front of her, and pressing the clay mug into her hands, she saw that his face had settled into lines, the temporary merriness of his eyes gone. 

"A proposal, Caffrawen. I will tell you of my life up to the present, and then you tell me of yours. There is much that lies unspoken between us - feel it, and you must as well. We obviously have many unanswered questions about each other - and I would not want any awkwardness between us." He spoke slowly, clearly thinking about each phrase before it left his mouth. 

Caffrawen, engaged in tearing off a hunk of roll, allowed another smile to curl her lips. 

"Am I a joke then, cousin?"

She grinned slightly. "Nay, cousin. I was merely thinking that you were in all things a smith - blunt and to the point. I am most eager to hear of your life, but I would appreciate if you spoke first. My hunger rages."

He relaxed, the set of his broad shoulders easing. "Aye. That I am. And I would hardly be a gentleman if I witheld your breakfast while making you give me the story of your life up till today."

Caffrawen had already filled her mouth with the roll. "Sho tawk."

"Pardon?"

She swallowed hastily. "Please, begin then."

He leaned back, his eyes already far away, looking at some distant wonder.

"You know that I was born on the Blessed Shores? Good. Hmmm. I remember growing up in that land of bliss, playing with the other Elflings in the cool grass of Formenos, watching my father and my uncles in the forges." He grinned then, the show of his white teeth against the tanned, grimy complexion of his face almost startling.

"They used to employ me to fetch them things - ' Oh, little 'Brimbor, please bring me that rasp.' Your father took an especial delight in asking me for the heaviest hammers, the things on the tallest shelves. After a while, I started telling him to get it himself."

Caffrawen felt the roll she had been chewing suddenly become very heavy as she attempted to swallow. A quick swig of the mug of tea loosened it, but not the curious joy and sorrow upon discovering something about her father's nature that she had not known. Apparently realizing that he had trodden on a tender subject, Celebrimbor changed tactics quickly.

"In any case, I can remember the light of the Two Trees - though I saw them only at the end of their lifespan." His voice held that curious wonder that all Elves possessed when speaking of the Two Trees. 

"I remember Grandfather working so feverishly on what I assumed were jewels that he was giving to Grandmother. Now I know what they were. Grandfather only let me inside for a quick peek - how he scowled!- but I did see them."

"How did they look?"

"There is no real word for it, my dear cousin. I am a jewel-smith, and I know good workmanship when I see it. I know incredible workmanship when I see it. But when I saw the Silmarils...I knew that they were unequaled, and beyond my skill." His lips pursed, as if he did not like admitting that truth to himself. "All my life, I have striven to create something that will be worthy of our line, something to redeem our heritage through its wonder. Alas, I fear that such knowledge as Grandfather used is forever lost - if ever he let a word of it past his lips."

"When the Two Trees withered, when Great-Grandfather died, I didn't think it could get much worse. But it did. The First Kin-Slaying...I did not understand why Grandfather, Father, and all my Uncles found it necessary to spill the blood of others...did not understand the screams, the terror. But I did know something had gone hideously wrong - to kill another Elf, one of your own kindred, is wrong....even a child understands that." His voice became hard. "All the world was confusion, red and black, pain and terror. It was all right on the seas for a while, but then the storms kicked up.." He broke off, his eyes leagues and years away, staring at their family's folly.

"The time came for me to swear the Oath. I wouldn't." The big smith closed his eyes. "Father was so angry. He shouted, I shouted right back. He threatened, but his threats held little weight. I renounced my family's deeds before Father and Uncle Celegorm...Celegorm was nearly pop-eyed with rage, but I think Uncle Maedhros understood. He sought me out later, after hearing of my choice, told me that he envied my decision."

Caffrawen was a little unsettled by this sudden outpouring of grief and emotion, but then remembered Celebrimbor's circumstances. He must not have had anyone to confide in for a long time. That plus the fact that this was the first emotionally driven conversation she'd had in years - she realized that she was looking impatiently for the time when she could tell him of her sorrow. Oblivious to her revelation, Celebrimbor continued.

"So I remained in Nargothrond, and I started to learn the skills of the smith. Eventually I traveled to Gondolin to live. From what I learned, and what I could remember from Valinor, I began to create. I wrought for who knows how many years...then Gondolin fell, and I fled with the rest." He looked almost ashamed. "But I did fight - I didn't hide."

"Glorfindel didn't hide either, and it is with great relief that many remember that he did flee with the rest of the refugees*." Caffrawen spoke in crisp tones. "Pray continue."

"I took to wandering with the entourage of the Lady Galadriel. She took me in, cared not about my heritage, knew the deeds that I had done. She is the grace of the Valar come to Earth." His eyes took on the same wonder they had held when describing the Two Trees.

"And Lord Celeborn?"

"Er...yes, and Lord Celeborn, he is a fine _benn_, a great leader of Elves." Under his deep tan, Celebrimbor seemed to blanch a bit, and Caffrawen wondered at this loss of composure. "In any case, the Lady Galadriel...and Lord Celeborn...asked me to help them design a city that would become the heart of Elvendom on Middle-Earth, a sanctuary in particular for the Noldor. A place where we could work on our projects in peace, collaborate with the good-hearted Dwarves, live life as we originally wished to."

"And Ost-in-Edhil was born."

"Aye. A newborn she is, but very much beloved." He took a long draught of the tea from his mug. "Are you ready, now, to tell me of your life, Caffrawen?"

"Aye. Not much to tell, as I am young, and have seen not half the wonders you have. I was born some forty years before the last Kinslaying. Once my parents were gone, I was raised by the Hunting-Elves in the colony that my father and Uncle Amrod founded. They taught me to hunt, to live in the wild, to sing at the bonfires. About fifty years ago, they all left for Valinor. Since then, I've lived in the Wilds surrounding Lindon and in the Blue Mountains, stopping every once in a while to visit Mithlond. About three weeks ago, I heard of Ost-in-Edhil, the haven of the Noldor, and the home of a genius smith. Now I am here."

Celebrimbor nodded, his eyes taking in much more than her brief, impersonal speech provided. "And you lived alone for those fifty years?"

"More or less. It is much easier to sleep in a tree and hunt for my daily meal than it is to walk to the market with my head uncovered, causing _elleth_ to cry and _benn_ to hurl insults."

He looked at her, blue eyes piercing through her until she had to look away. "And now you are here." He extended his hand, palm up, across the trestle table. She hestitated a moment, then placed her own hand in his, lightly squeezing it. He squeezed back, and Caffrawen drew strength from that light touch. 

He stood up, abruptly. "If you've eaten your fill, I would like to show you about Ost-in-Edhil." He smiled, indicating the doorway.

***

That night, in Celebrimbor's home, as Caffrawen combed out her hair, damp from the luxurious heated bath, she felt content. It was a good place, the right place for her to create a home. Never had she felt so...relaxed. The remainder of the day had been spent touring the city, and roaming through the Smith's quarter. The paternal pride in Celebrimbor towards his city was almost palpable, revealing itself in the swell of his chest with a glance at the skyline, or the gentle touch of his fingers to the white marble of the city walls. He loved this place, was loved by it...

All her life, Caffrawen had known intuitvely that the blame of the Kinslayings was not hers to bear. Yet it had been thrust upon her, unwilling, by the eyes of her own kin. Now that she had met someone in the same straits, who did not feel guilty for the Kinslayings...she felt oddly justified, and at peace with the world. After all, two could share misery better than one, and Ost-in-Edhil was far from miserable.

A knock at the door surprised her. Affirming admission, she saw Celebrimbor open the door, holding two mugs of heated milk in his hands. 

"A good way to fall asleep at night." He figeted, obviously wanting to say something else.

"Spit it out, dear Celebrimbor. Your smith's nature betrays you." Caffrawen gave him a smile. He pressed the mug into her hand and motioned for her to sit.

"I...I wanted to tell you about the Third Kinslaying. I was there."

"I thought you had not sworn the Oath."

"I didn't, I didn't. But neither could I find it within myself to take up arms against my uncles. I...Caffrawen, I was with your father when he died."

Caffrawen felt that it was becoming more difficult to breathe. A heavy strap seemed to be restricting the movement of her chest, and her ears and eyes burned terribly. 

__

Mother, what's wrong? Are you hurt? Is it Father? Mother? Mother!! Help! Someone help me!! 

The automatic replay of the day her mother had died, signaling the almost simultaneous death of her Father, had been one of the worst of her life, and she was helpless to prevent it possessing her. Gritting her teeth, Caffrawen was aware of Celebrimbor's concerned eyes upon her.

"Please go on."

"He said...he told me of your existence, of the colony. He said that I was to carry his love to you, the request that you become his heir. I _tried_, Caffrawen, I _tried_ so hard to find you and the colony. But you and the Hunting-Elves hid yourselves well, and our uncles that knew where you were had either fled or died. I'm so sorry for not helping to protect him."

Caffrawen stilled his apologies with a light pressure of her fingertips on his wrist. "I knew, Celebrimbor, I knew. And I sincerely doubt that there is anyone who wishes to be ruled by a Feanorian, or be bound to one."

"As for defending my father, I am glad that you did not." He looked up, amazed at her words. "Father was bound to the Oath. Death would have claimed him elsewhere, if not there. And you would have been killed, or had the blood of others on your hands. And I would be alone. It is selfish, I know, but of all things, Celebrimbor, I am glad that you remain."

Celebrimbor stared at her, taking in the depth of this statement. At once, his shoulders relaxed, and his features nearly formed a smile. 

"This is a guest room, you know. Since I've never entertained any travelers, it has not really earned its name, and the question of what I should call it remains to be seen." He took a deep breath. "Are you a guest, Caffrawen, or are you staying on?"

Caffrawen broke into a merry grin. "As long as you can stand me, dear cousin." 

He stood up, the grin slowly spreading across his wide face, not unlike the sun rising behind Ost-in-Edhil that morning.

She stood up, and impulsively, embraced him fiercely. There was a bit of surprise in the set of his body, but he hugged her back just as fiercely. There was a world of comfort and understanding in their embrace, and the knowledge that neither had had anyone to share this type of familiar contact with for a long time. Neither was aware of how long they had stood in that world, but eventually, they moved apart. 

"Good night, dear cousin."

"Good night, dear Celebrimbor."

As he closed the door, Caffrawen closed her eyes and tipped back her head, letting the feelings of love and contentment wash over her, before she climbed into a real bed for the first time in over fifty years. The billowy comfort of the feather tick underneath her soothed her body, in a way similar to the soothing of her mind. 

She had been wrong, she realized. She would not create a home in Ost-in-Edhil.

She was already there.

***

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Anyone still there? I'm sorry this was so long, but it really is a necessary chapter for this character-driven story. If you read it all, you have my love and my admiration for your courage. Oh, and just to clarify things, this ain't a "kissing-cousins" story. Caffrawen and Celebrimbor have merely been without filial love and on their own for a long, long time. That, and Tolkein absolutely forbid the marriage of close kin So worry not! 

* The Oath of Feanor, or the Oath of the Silmarils, was what drove Feanor to begin the first of the Kinslayings. Feanor and his seven sons (Caffrawen's grandfather, her father, and her six uncles) swore by Illuvatar (God) that they would slay anyone and anything that kept them from reclaiming the stolen Silmarils, and called everlasting Darkness upon themselves if they did not keep to their Oath. Easy to see why Celebrimbor didn't want to swear the Oath, isn't it?

* The fleeing refugees of Gondolin were beset by a Balrog, and would have been slain, were it not for the bravery of Glorfindel, who will make an appearance in the Fellowship of the Ring. (Arwen saved Frodo from the Nazgul? Oh, please.)

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Canon deviations -

- The description of Ost-in-Edhil is completely my creation, as no physical description was ever given.

- Amras was never recorded to have a wife or a child.

-It is not recorded if Celebrimbor was present at the Third Kinslaying, though he probably was, just didn't participate. His birthdate, and whether he ever saw Valinor, is conjecture, as no birthdate was given.

- No guard by the name of Failar has been recorded. 

No impetuous Elflings were harmed in the writing of this chapter, but the author would like to point out the dangers of teasing a bad-tempered Dwarf. Kids, don't try this at home.


	4. Meetings, Mischief, and Melee

Oh, dear Lord. I am terribly sorry for the delay between chapters. Exams, working as waitress and field hand, and other bits of real life that would bore you got in the way. Next one should be out much more quickly (crosses fingers).

I have learned that the correct way of saying "female Elf" in Sindarin is _bess_. I will change the _elleths _from previous chapters as I find time.

To Elemmire, Kristin, Nina, Maggie, and Silmarien - as my first brave reviewers, you hold a special place in my heart. Thank you.

This extremely long chapter dedicated to Maggie, who knows why (or should).

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Chapter Three: _Meetings, Mischief, and Mêlée _

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Imladris, 2441, Second Age

With a jolt, Caffrawen realized that she had been drifting off into the past. Now why had she recalled that particular memory? She had been able to forget Ost-in-Edhil for the past fifty years or so, banish the memories to the deepest recesses of her mind, exist in the here-and-now. 

Did Cugufain's words have such an effect on her? Caffrawen wondered if it wasn't her mind's way of seeking comfort from the insults by recalling a blissful period of her life. Perhaps it was merely an after-effect of the unsettling dream of the previous night.

The here-and-now, however, demanded that the rye flour be scrubbed out of the sheets before they crusted. Drawing a deep breath, she hefted the basket down to the sparkling waters of the Bruinen, looking for a calm alcove where she could work. 

Down from the Ford a bit, the river widened, as a large rock diverted the river's flow, making it cut into the bank and create a sandy pool. The water was cool and inviting, perhaps the remedy to thoughts of times gone by.

Divesting herself of the brown overdress and kicking off her shoes, Caffrawen knelt in the pool and allowed her mind to become comfortably blank as she scrubbed at the sheets with the rough sand. In this state, it was easier for her to hear the sounds of nature, as they wove a gentle melody that spoke of the harmony of all that lived within the vale of Imladris.

The harmony of all non-speaking creatures, at least.

From the songbirds, there was only the happy contentment of well-fed beings that were nourished by summer fruits. A brook trout nearby sounded its frustration at being unable to swim up through a small but swiftly moving channel. Meadow grasses nearby were engaged in the task of growing quickly to spread their seed and propagate a new patch of ground, which was being hotly contested over by the grass and by an equally frantic patch of wild onions. Annoyed by the continued absence of her mate, a black snake flickered her tongue and followed his trail to a clearing full of sun-heated rocks.

The trees towered over all, their deep voices thrumming pleasantly, echoing the pleasure of the songbirds at the plentitude of sunlight and warmth. The song of the practice-field was distant, but not, she noted, making a sour note in the songs of nature. Altogether a pleasant day to be outdoors, instead of cooped up in the kitchens. 

Cooped up...how much longer was she going to stay in Imladris? If the war with Sauron was lost, as it almost certainly was going to be...where would she and the remaining people of her kindred go? It was altogether distasteful, to Caffrawen's way of thinking, that the Elves simply leave the Second-Born and the Dwarves to whatever terrible fate awaited them, and flit blithely away to the Blessed Shores. 

To her, anyway, the option was closed.

If the decree of the Valar had not restrained her from leaving Middle-Earth, she wouldn't leave anyway. She still had her own vengeance to wreck upon Sauron...blood and duplicity that she was determined to avenge.

She shifted, allowing her long legs to stretch out along the riverbed, hearing the confusion of tiny fish as they nibbled harmlessly at her toes and found nothing edible.

If, however, the war was won, the Alliance victorious, where then would she go? Imladris was stifling, Mithlond impossible. Numenor was gone, and she could not return to Ost-in-Edhil. 

She had heard, however, that a Woodland Kingdom had been established in Greenwood the Great some hundreds of years ago, by some Sindarin prince...what was his name?...ah yes, King Oropher. He had wanted to establish a more natural-living realm for the Elves. Primitive by some standards, and certainly not the city life filled with building and creating that Caffrawen's Noldor blood delighted in, it nonetheless had an appeal and charm that spoke comfort to her heart. To be back in the forests, as in the days before she had come to Ost-in-Edhil, gave her a curious sense of joy. If the forces of Good won the battles to come, perhaps she would take up residence there. Only gratitude bound her to Imladris.

The song of the trees abruptly changed, though not in a foreboding way, she noted. Pausing as she sanded the sheets clean of rye flour, she listened.

Three pairs of footfalls, attempting to move with stealth but failing, issued from the copse about a hundred feet away. The trees sang of no malice from the visitors, but Caffrawen was nonetheless wary. 

From one of her visitors, there was a sharp gasp, and Caffrawen caught a flash of black hair and fair features from behind a blueberry bush. There was a quiet murmur, something that sounded like "It's an elf-woman!"

There was a heavy pause, and two brown-haired heads appeared between the parted branches of a stout cypress tree.

"Are you sure? It could be Laoma - can't make out the features from here." This from the brown-haired one with doe-like eyes - a human woman, she realized. 

"Why would Laoma sit in the river to do washing? 'Sides, she's on cooking duty." came the tart response from the other brown-haired girl with a large nose and lips puckered in concentration.

"Do you think she knows we're here?"

"Nah. Look, she's rinsing the sheet. Let's get a bit closer."

This was followed by more stealthy steps - stealth lessened by curiosity and anticipation. Caffrawen bit her lip to keep from smiling, and continued to watch the women creep closer. As they passed from tree to bush, she could see that the two brown-haired girls wore coarse linen dresses, dyed a light brown. The black-haired girl wore, oddly enough, a red sash around the waist of her own brown dress. Not, Caffrawen decided, the best color choice for attempting to sneak up on an Elf. 

They had come to rest about twenty feet away from her, behind a fallen tree. She could hear every soft breath, every rustle as the girls sought more comfortable positions. Though "girls" might not be the appropriate word.

Caffrawen had lived most of her life with her Elven kindred, and though she had seen members of the Second-born* before, she still was at a bit of a loss when it came to guessing age. Children and the very old were obvious, but the ages betwixt them kept her guessing. The black-haired one, she guessed, was into maturity, while the two brown-haired girls were somewhere between youth and adulthood.

"Look at that stuff she's rinsing out. Looks like vomit."

"Silly. Elves don't get sick."

"No, they don't. They can get rather angry, however, and start throwing food at you." Caffrawen had decided to end the charade.

There was a repressed squeal from one of the girls. Sheepishly, they poked their heads above the log.

"We're sorry to have spied upon you, my lady," said the black-haired woman with great dignity, "and I hope you are not angry with our childish behavior." She drew herself up to her full height and bowed her head. Red-faced, the two other women stood up and bowed their heads.

Caffrawen stood up, half-amused and half-horrified at their behavior. They didn't bow their heads out of apology, they bowed their heads to her because she was an Elf!

"Oh, I'm not angry." she said, standing up with her wet chemise clinging to her body. "The _bess_ who threw the rye flour at me, now _she_ was angry." With that, she pointed to the slimy stuff that had yet to be sanded off. "Come, sit, the water's wonderfully cool." 

The two brown-haired girls glanced at each other, betraying their nervousness. The black-haired woman gazed at her steadily, a hint of confusion in her eyes. Warily, she stepped forward, and at her action, the others followed her lead. Now that they were closer, Caffrawen could discern other things about them, things that puzzled her. Why did the black-haired woman wear traces of perfume, when the others did not? 

"My name is Caffrawen," she went on, in the same reassuring voice, proffering a hand in a gesture of welcome, "and I am no lady. Who might you be?"

The women glanced at each other, and again, the black-haired woman took the initiative, speaking in dulcet tones.

"My name is Romera. This one here," and she indicated the brown-haired girl with the large nose, "is-"

"Thank you, Romera, but I've recovered my tongue." the girl spoke sharply, and rather loudly. "My name is Seatra, very glad to meet you." She took the proffered hand and clasped it, briefly but firmly, the young skin of her hands prematurely roughened by hours spent working with wash-tubs. She looked pointedly at the brown-haired girl with doe eyes.

"I am Naimi." the girl said simply, her voice hardly more than a whisper. Caffrawen tilted her head slightly to regard Naimi, but Naimi refused to look anywhere but her at her shoes. 

" Well met then, _Lady_ Naimi, _Lady_ Seatra, and _Lady_ Romera. You work at King Elendil's camp, I assume?" Once the words had spilled out, Caffrawen instantly regretted them, afraid they would mistake her meaning.

At her statement, Naimi blushed furiously, but remained fascinated with the worn leather of her shoes. Seatra and Romera, however, brightened at this bit of repartee in response to Romera's earlier addresses. 

"Aye, that we do. Be they warriors, farmers, smiths, or kings, there are three things that men cannot live without, and cannot seem to do for themselves." She paused shooting a knowing grin at her companions, and extending it to Caffrawen. "Someone to cook their supper, someone to wash their clothes, and someone to warm their b...breakfast." Seatra had rambled on quite contentedly, glad for an untried ear to complain to, to quote what must have been the standard mantra for most of the women workers in the camp. Her slip had obviously embarrassed her, and she glanced almost apologetically at Romera.

Romera, however, gave no indication that she had heard the slight slip in Seatra's speech, composure settling over her face like a mask. Naimi, moving her eyes for the first time, darted her gaze to the pair, then took the opportunity to sneak a more lingering glance at the soaking _bess_.

To say that Caffrawen was perplexed was an understatement. Breaking the rather uncomfortable pause, she gestured for them to sit on the riverbank, a feat that they did so with only a hint of trepidation on the part of Naimi.

"If you don't mind me asking...Caffrawen...why are you sitting in the Bruinen to wash clothing? Is it a custom among your people?" Romera asked, with the serenity and ease of one who is able to start a conversation with anyone.

"No, no customs of my people require us to wade while cleaning, it's just that...I have felt a bit unsettled this day, and I thought that perhaps a dip in the stream might help."

"How?" boldly questioned Seatra. Caffrawen found herself taking a liking to this forthright young woman.

"Have you ever been splashed by ice cold water? Makes you forget what you were thinking about, doesn't it?"

"Or pulls you out of a deep sleep!" This rather fervent exclamation came from Naimi, who had finally found the courage to speak, only to become shocked by the sound of her own voice, and blushed a deep red. She was saved by a snicker from Seatra.

"It was an accident, I promise, Naimi!" the grinning girl said. She in turn was interrupted by a snort from Romera, a noise that was at odds with her tranquil demeanor.

"Indeed, an accident that involved you tipping over the washbasin that somehow found its way across the tent, and you running away before apologizing for this _accident_. As I recall, the Fifth Battalion of Swordsmen had their clothes stolen and let to freeze in a barrel of water that same night, _didn't_ they, Seatra?"

Seatra smirked, her cobalt eyes glittering with satisfaction. "Serves them right for tramping through that red clay and expecting us to wash it out." 

Attempting to break into the ring of close confidence the three shared, and feeling rather awkward at doing so, Caffrawen spoke. "Sounds like our soldiers. Have to chase them out of the kitchens, or we'd have naught to eat ourselves." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt a fool for saying them, as they possessed little of humor or wit, only a hideous ineptness.

"There's a trick to that. Add something like tree bark or twigs into the batter of a few sacrifice loaves. Stick them in plain sight, and you'll never have trouble again." Both this speech of Seatra's and her subsequent removal of shoes and stockings to soak her feet in the Bruinen did much to alleviate Caffrawen's discomfiture. It also brought a devilish grin to her face. 

"Aye - or perhaps breech-bush?* That'd send them running in the opposite direction!" she rejoined. 

There was an appreciative intake of air from Seatra and Naimi. From Romera, however, there came a second snort. "Aye and for good reason!" She descended into a fit of giggles that was eventually shared by the other three females. The laugh had relaxed them, and a circle of amiability was fast encompassing them. 

Taking a chance on losing their newly gained friendliness, Caffrawen decided to ask a question that was niggling at the back of her mind. "If you don't mind me asking - and I'm not mad at all - why were you here watching me wash clothes? I would think that you'd have seen enough of it back at your camp."

She was grateful to note that instead of becoming guarded and reserved, they only became sheepish and a bit embarrassed. 

"We've never seen a she-Elf before. We wondered if you were similar to us, or if you were wondrous beautiful to look upon. The he-Elves are very fair, and the tales of Luthien are still remembered by us. Did you know her?" Naimi spoke boldly, surprising everyone there, herself included. Caffrawen flinched inwardly at the mention of Luthien*, but absorbed the rest of the statement with interest. 

"In that case, I am sorry to disappoint you. I am not 'wondrous beautiful', nor accounted among the fairest of my race at all. Luthien died before I was born. Come now, what's the other reason? Whatever it is, tell me, and I will see if I can satisfy your curiosity." She softened the speech with a self-ridiculing grin.

The women looked at one another. Seatra, ever the bold, spoke up first.

"We wished to see if your ears were truly pointy, if your skin truly shone in the dark. We've seen the he-Elves, but their ears were always covered by helmets, and always in the day time. Is that offensive to you?"

Caffrawen considered the question. "No, I can't understand how I would take offense from such a question. I don't suppose I've ever considered my ears as pointy, but I suppose in comparison to your rounded ones, they are." She paused to pointedly push back the hair shrouding her ears, feeling three pairs of eyes instantly move to the pronounced tips. Watching their reactions, she noted with amusement that Naimi, in an unconscious gesture, touched her own ears to compare. 

"We also call female Elves _bess_, and male Elves _benn_, to distinguish the two." There, she decided, was an inter-species impasse that had better be corrected before someone's toes were trodden upon.

"We have always heard that you were called she-Elves, is it not the same?" Seatra obviously did not like to be contradicted or corrected, that much was clear.

"Nay. It would be the same as my calling you a she-Man." Seatra shifted uncomfortably at Caffrawen's words, and the other two were amused to no small end at the girl's discomfiture. 

"And the glowing skin?" Romera pressed, intrigued by the information such a candid disclosure offered.

"Only faintly in the dark. No more than yours does, I suppose." Caffrawen was beginning to grow a bit uneasy about this impromptu interrogation.

The women shot a look at each other. Romera spoke up. "Our skin doesn't glow, Caffrawen."

Now it was Caffrawen's turn to be surprised, not only by the revelation, but by the casual use of her name, which pleased her. "Your skin doesn't reflect starlight? I thought that was a trait of all the Children of Illuvatar."

"I suppose not. But you've probably been around for a lot longer than we have. Have you never seen our kind at night?" Seatra was pushing her way back into the dialogue, looking for a manner in which to contribute. Naimi looked at her amusedly, and Caffrawen realized the girl had made the same conclusion.

"I have seen men at night," Caffrawen stated slowly, forcing back down painful memories that were better left unrecalled, "But my mind was on other things at the time."

Females of all species recognize a diplomatic silence and topic change when they hear it, so it came as no surprise to the women to hear Caffrawen doing so. The particulars of what she said next caught their full attention.

"I have heard that the race of Men sleeps with their eyes closed. Is this true?" 

"You don't?"

"You do?"

The women and the _bess_ gaped at each other a moment before subsiding again into easy laughter. The laughter continued for some time, moving once again into easy conversation, as they sunned themselves in a nearby glade. Many things were spoken of in that first meeting; the antics of the soldiers, the intractable mistresses they served, the latest news of the movements of the enemy and of rumors of what action their Alliance would take. By unspoken agreement, no one spoke of their families, or where they had come from, and no one was unhappy with this arrangement. Romera dozed off, and Seatra took great amusement in tickling her face with a fern leaf, Naimi and Caffrawen giggling at Romera's sleepy oaths. Finally, Caffrawen realized that she'd better tend to her duties before someone noticed her absence. 

"I am sorry to have to leave you, but I have work to attend to back in the halls." She heaved a great sigh, beginning to pull the overdress upon her sun-dried chemise. "And, like as not, someone's reported my absence to the head-_bess_, and she'll feed my innards to the chickens." Inwardly, she was pleased to see that her new companions looked a bit sorry to see her go. "Do you...er...wash clothes here often?" she continued, hoping to encounter her new acquaintances again.

"We generally wash them in the tubs in camp." Seatra offered, idly twisting a small yellow flower in her hand.

"Tubs? Oh, we occasionally wash ours in hot water as well - we boil them over campfires." Caffrawen drawled inanely, unwilling to leave the peacefulness of the glade.

Naimi, who generally parceled out words like rations of water over a long, hot desert, surprised them all in that moment. "You know, I never quite understood why we had to haul buckets of water to the tubs when all we were doing was scrubbing in cold water. Would it not be more reasonable to take the scrub-boards up here? Soiled laundry is not so heavy, and could be dried out here without growing fusty."

Though Naimi spoke less often than her two human companions, it was clear that she thought little of the effect it had on others. Seatra openly gaped at her, but whether it was in amazement at her speech or her logic, none could tell. Romera was equally affected. Caffrawen cast her eyes to the side and puckered her lips in thought, half so that she could consider Naimi's suggestion, half so that she did not see Naimi's irascible expression.

To prevent Naimi from spitting out more words that would shock the other girls (because of their meaning, not their existence), Caffrawen spoke up.

"That sounds like an excellent method of conserving energy. How often do you wash?"

"Every morning, about this time. Today was our day off." Romera said interestedly, looking up at the _bess_ from where she lay drowsing on the grass.

"Then, if my presence is not offensive or unwanted, might I consolidate strength and wash with you here? I often wash alone." Caffrawen ended on a plaintive note.

"The sympathy ploy doesn't work on us, Caffrawen. We've turned away soldiers begging us to wash their tunics before inspection. They didn't get it in on time, their loss." Seatra said, with heavy irony. "Oh, don't get fussed," she continued, seeing the expression on the Elf's face, "I was only teasing! Sympathy doesn't work, but your pleasant company does."

"Tomorrow, then?" Caffrawen said, hoisting the linens back into her basket.

"Oh, you'll be lucky if we don't beat you to it!"

***

"I want eight minutes of kneading time per loaf, my dears, and no cheating on the time!"

Riselwen clucked at the _bess_ clustered round the baking table. The head of domestic affairs at Imladris was an efficient, if formidable leader. The neatly bundled and labeled sacks of supplies lining shelves in the storage room, the lack of orders being called in shrill voices, the full stomachs of Gil-galad's army, all were testament to the skill of the _bess_, Riselwen in particular. 

Currently, Caffrawen stood next to five other _bess_, all busily muscling mounds of creamy brown dough that would bake to become rye bread. Two _bess_ that were friendly with Caffrawen had positioned themselves nearby, content to share with her the space of table sprinkled with rye flour. The other three had pointedly created a second floury spot separate from Caffrawen's offensive presence. Thankfully, although the three refrained from speaking to the Feanorian, they did not disdain to speak to her friends. Caffrawen greatly feared becoming a wedge and a dividing point for the Elves of Imladris. So she let the others natter on while she sought an opportunity to speak to the head-_bess_. Observing that she was involved in criticizing another cook's preparation of potato soup, she sidled off. This earned her a curious glance from her friend Giliath, who was rewarded with a wink for her observant eyes.

"Lady Risielwen, could I make a suggestion?" 

The _bess_ whirled around. Caffrawen had the briefest impression of a lion - large, curly hair standing out from Risielwen's face, wary eyes, and a firmly bridged nose over an equally firm jaw. 

"And your suggestion would be?" The wary predatory gaze on Caffrawen hardened into outright suspicion.

"We have a problem with soldiers filching food from the kitchens. Perhaps if we mixed something, say, breech-bush root into the mix of a few sacrifice loaves of sweetbread, we'd make them think twice about stealing." Caffrawen kept her demeanor bright, her tone upbeat. It would not do to invoke the _bess_'s suspicion. It was to her sense of poetic justice and humor that she was appealing to. 

Risielwen's eyelids became half-lidded, completing the image of a sleepy lion. Behind her, Caffrawen heard the other _bess_ slow and soften their conversation, obviously eavesdropping.

The sleepy lion's eyes snapped open. "A devious idea it is, and quite possibly very useful. Devious, yes."

Caffrawen stiffened at the insinuation. Just because she was of the House of Feanor...but perhaps Risielwen meant it as a compliment. She held herself in check, realizing that perhaps she'd grown a bit oversensitive in her years at Imladris.

"However, this was your idea, and it must be your doing. I'll send for some breech-bush root." She raised her voice over the din of the kitchens. "Now hear this! Upon great pain and discomfort, do not eat of the sweetbread inside the red-striped tins. They will be in plain sight, but do not give in to temptation, nor discourage a famished soldier for partaking of them." Her pronouncement was met with confused eyes, but compliant nods. 

Risielwen turned on Caffrawen. "Get to it then, _gwenn_."

With a grin born of triumph of wit, mischief of heart, and thrill of manipulation, Caffrawen set about gathering materials for ten loaves of tainted sweetbread. No one need know that more than the required amount of ingredients were taken from the supply room, and no one need even guess that one of the loaves made would be innocent of the touch of breech-bush. 

The monotony of kneading the first loaf allowed her time to reflect on the day's events. Had she Second-Born friends? Such a thing was fairly rare nowadays, despite the camaraderie between the armies of Gil-galad and Elendil, and the common goal that united the two races. They seemed to like her well enough, and she in turn was intrigued by them.

Seatra, she mused, was a very open person. Her thoughts were not private, they were plastered across her face and poured from her chattering lips. Despite the occasionally annoying instances that this trait created, this candid behavior made her the easiest to trust. Any distrust or lies would blare readily across her face should they ever exist. Besides that, the girl seemed to be possessed of a friendly, careless nature whose charm was impossible to resist.

Naimi, the unobtrusive girl with the apparently quick and roving mind, proved to Caffrawen the truth of the old adage - still waters run deep. There had been flashes of gaiety and giddiness on the surface, as well as irritation, but in general it was difficult to divine her emotions. While she said little, Caffrawen had noted her eyes roving from person to person, missing no word, inflection, or gesture. She knew enough to realize that there was much more to the doe-eyed brunette than could be determined in one meeting.

Romera, the woman who defined serenity and dignity, had puzzled Caffrawen the most. Though the tranquil exterior was belied to some point by a few caustic remarks, and some rather intriguing oaths that Caffrawen committed to memory, she gave the Elf the impression that there was a good deal of self-control that went into this facade. What was she truly like? Had it anything to do with the differences she had noted earlier? She dressed differently, smelled differently, and behaved differently. But what did such things mean when put together?

Her eyes widened as she came to a conclusion. Romera was a Lady of Elendil's camp! Perhaps she was the wife of one of the generals, or perhaps married to one of Isildur's sons. Yes, that would explain the gaudier clothing, heavy scent, formal manners, and why Seatra had moderated the punchline of a formerly raucous jest in front of the woman. 

It did not, however, explain why such a highborn lady would be washing soiled uniforms with the lower-born washer-girls. But then, she was unfamiliar with the customs of Men. Perhaps it strengthened the hearts of the soldiers and the washer-girls to see Romera pitching in. In any case, it made the most sense out of the conclusions she had come to...her reverie was interrupted by a chin resting on her shoulder.

"Have you found a comfortable place to perch, Giliath*?"

"No. This perch obviously has something devious going on that it has neglected to tell me about." The chin moved off her shoulder to allow the flaxen-haired _bess_ a closer look at the apparently innocent lumps of dough. Another Noldorian exile, and also of Ost-in-Edhil, Giliath and Caffrawen had met shortly after Caffrawen had arrived at the Elven fortress. Fast friends ever since then, they had supported each other in their individual struggles. Caffrawen had once admitted to herself that, without Giliath, she could never have borne the empty stares and angry glances from other Elves.

"Indeed it does. See this?" Caffrawen lifted a sample of grainy yellow powder up to the other _bess_'s nose, amused at the way the long nose crinkled and the brown eyes widened in realization.

"Caffrawen, that's breech-bush root! What do you think you're doing...oh, I see now." The look of shock was replaced by one of sly amusement. 

"Best part is, they don't tell each other about stealing from the kitchens. They're afraid that others will ask them to steal for them. So they won't connect the ill-health to the sweetbreads left so conveniently in easy reach. This could go on for some time." Both _bess_ started snickering. The snickers turned to snorts, the snorts to whooping gales of laughter.

"Where did you get that idea? Pure genius, it was!" Giliath managed to get out, struggling for breath and wiping her eyes clear of moisture.

"Not mine."

"Whose, then?" Giliath tipped her head to meet the eyes of the shorter Elf.

Caffrawen felt herself retract, briefly debating whether to confide in Giliath about her new acquaintances. In Ost-in-Edhil, Caffrawen had never insinuated one word to Giliath of the existence of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain...but then, where had that gotten them?

"I met some very friendly women this morning near the Ford. They work in Elendil's camp, and gave me some very interesting ideas."

"You've met human women? What were they like? Other than wickedly devious, that is." Giliath crossed her arms in front of her chest, patently intrigued. 

"Mostly like us. A gamut of every emotion and temperament, and different levels to which they express them."

"No, I meant about their eyes. Do they truly close their eyes to sleep?"

"Aye - and they were quite surprised by the fact that we don't."

"Pleasant? Friendly?"

"Aye...other things too. It's simply astounding how different we are from them...and yet so similar." Caffrawen trailed off, lost in thought. She was pulled by her thoughts, however, as Giliath voiced a question.

"Why do you think it is, Caffrawen, that we've lived beside them for millennia, and yet we're still not certain if they close their eyes to rest?" The _bess_'s mouth twitched. "Rather disconcerting, isn't it? The fact that there's still so little we know about each other?"

"Perhaps," Caffrawen began, speaking slowly, "Perhaps the fact that they are mortal and we are not plays a factor. Why befriend someone if you know without a doubt that they will die in a short span of time? Yet Dwarves are befriended by our kindred, and they live not much longer than a Numenorian*."

"Were befriended." Giliath pointed out. "No longer."

"The leaders of today may scorn the friendship of the Dwarves, but I still claim them as my friends."

Giliath regarded Caffrawen closely for a moment. "You are unexpectedly vehement today." Caffrawen opened her mouth to deliver an apology, only to have it stilled by Giliath's finger. "No apologies. I heard about Cugufain*."

Caffrawen snorted. "What a misnomer, eh?"

Giliath smiled faintly. "Take it up with Lord Elrond. I am certain he'd be only too glad to..."

"Too glad to encourage them on."

Giliath stopped, not knowing how to respond. Then, as always, she found some way to brighten the conversation. "I wonder if Lord Elrond is one of the bread-thieves. Would that not be amusing?"

Knowing what her friend was doing, Caffrawen decided to play along. "It would be such a shame if he had to run out of one of those Councils." she said with a false gaiety. Too false.

Giliath fixed her with a concerned stare. "Caffrawen, what has been going on lately that you aren't telling me about? You're always distracted, and those shadows under your eyes speak of little sleep."

Giliath's words caught unexpectedly at a lump in Caffrawen's throat. With some great effort, she pushed it down, and focused on responding while the other Elf waited patiently.

"It's...dreams...I've been having very vivid dreams of...Ost-in-Edhil." The admission instantly deflated the lump in her throat, and Caffrawen watched her friend process the information. 

"Well, I can see why that would rob you of sleep...do you want to speak of them?"

"Not particularly. I relive them enough as it is."

"Perhaps Elrond could prescribe a sleep aid..."

"If that's so, I'd rather stay awake. I will take nothing offered by him again."

Giliath nodded understanding. "See you at the evening meal?"

"Aye. Tonight's meal, and the next night's...every night until I can find a way out of this cursed valley." Caffrawen said bitterly.

To her surprise, Giliath looked at her without sympathy. "Indeed? You know, I could be mistaken, but I seem to remember there being two very distinct pathways out of the valley. Clearly marked, with signs, too. If you were going to leave, you'd have done it already."

The words cut. Feeling her ears burn with embarrassment, Caffrawen attempted to rally a defense. "Do not tell me that you feel no desire to be gone from here, to be out from under Elrond's thumb?"

The hardness melted from Giliath's features. "Of course I wish to be gone from here. Most of the others have gone to that 'Golden Wood' of Lady Galadriel's and Lord Celeborn's - or overseas. Obligation keeps me here, as it does you."

"I thought the word was _gratitude_ or perhaps _indebtedness_."

Giliath shrugged laconically. "At what point does gratitude become obligation? At what point is the obligation fulfilled? If I knew the answers, Caffrawen, I'd be counting the days till I could leave."

"Good point. See you at dinner?"

Giliath's mouth quirked. "The only other place I could be would be the road leading out of Imladris. I'll be there."

Caffrawen cocked her head to regard her friend. "_There_ meaning the Hall of Fire, or there meaning the road out of Imladris?"

"Don't you like surprises?"

***

After a quick word with Elimani*, the two arranged to meet at sunset in an unkempt courtyard, one that reminded Caffrawen unnervingly of the illicit 'fighting pits' used by Men in competitions that she had heard of. If she had cared, Caffrawen would have been dismayed at the weed growth shifting the flagstones, the unchecked ivy growth that spilled over the high walls of the courtyard, the dark moss that clumped in the shadows and reached up to the balconies of some of the rooms above.

If she had cared about Imladris.

Elimani stood hipshot in the very center of the courtyard, two wooden practice swords leaning carelessly against his side. 

"Sweetbread?"

Caffrawen glanced down at the covered basket she was holding. "As promised."

He gave her a quizzical look. "So just where did you get the supplies on such short notice?"

She gave him an arch look. "Traded them for my scruples." she said, eliciting a laugh from Elimani. "Shall we begin?"

Elimani swept his gaze over her skirted figure. "Once you change into trousers. Do you really expect to train in a skirt?"

"I didn't have time."

"You have even less time now. Go change."

Grinding her teeth at being ordered - by _Elimani_, of all people - Caffrawen dropped the basket at her side. Bending down and seizing the hems of her skirt and chemise, she folded them up, tucking them into her belt as she worked the circumference of the fabric, creating a ludicrous-looking skirt that fell to her knees. Caffrawen was hard-pressed not to laugh when she turned to see her friend's expression.

Elimani's face had turned beet red from embarrassment, and his sides were shaking rather noticeably, giving one the impression that he was close to exploding. Giving him a moment to compose himself, Caffrawen picked the basket back up and moved it to a corner. Turning around, she saw that he had settled the placid mask back on to his face, and following his example, faced him with her hands.

"I have changed."

"Indeed." Elimani held out a wooden sword for her to take. She gripped the hilt with her right hand, nearly overbalancing, but correcting with her left hand, not missing Elimani's approving nod.

"That is correct. When you pull the sword from its sheath, grip it first with your strong hand - your right, I believe - then slide your left above it till you feel the blade is balanced and you can wield it with ease."

"I _know_ that."

He gave Caffrawen an irritated look. "It is better that you allow your mind to divorce itself from instinct, at least a slight bit. In combat situations you may face a feint from an opponent and, acting on instinct, end up on their blade." 

Caffrawen's jaw tightened. "Noted."

Elimani moved to face her, drawing and holding his own practice sword in a combative posture. "Now we test the strength of your grip. It is not in how hard you hold the blade, how tense your arm muscles are. It deals more with how much ground you are willing to give the opponent. I'm going to make several swings at your blade. Deflect them as you see fit."

Caffrawen repositioned her stance, spreading her legs to have a firmer purchase on the courtyard floor. With a lunge forward, Elimani made a sweeping lateral cut that might have rent her midsection, had it been steel rather than pine. She turned her blade, pointing it down at a vertical angle, and felt the impact of Elimani's attack. Using her left hand to pull the sword up, she successfully parried his attack, allowing their swords to slide against one another, letting Elimani escape backwards.

"Excellent! Very good for a first defense, very good."

"I'm simply blushing, Elimani." Yet she could not help but feel a small bit of triumph at the success of her defense.

"Don't get puffed yet. Next time you make a parry like that, use your right hand to exert pressure down, rather than pull up with your weaker left, and use the left to keep it pushing me back, as you let the blades glide across one another as he retreats. You want to pull up rather quickly, too. Your opponent may be feinting, and draw back only to slice you across your unprotected area, while your sword is still down."

Caffrawen nodded, attempting to process the information and apply it to her movements, .

"Ready?"

"Ready."

This time, he attacked her by first swinging the blade round his head, making an apparent attack to her left side. As she moved to guard her left, he deftly slid under her defense, poking her in her right midsection.

"Where did I go wrong?"

"You watched your own blade instead of mine. Once you saw me feinting to your left, you watched your own blade to ensure that your blade would deflect my own. Put your trust in your own blade, because it is _my_ blade that is trying to attack you. Keep your attention on your opponent's movement, and see your own blade react in your peripheral vision."

Caffrawen admitted to herself at that moment that Elimani was a very good teacher. He doled out praise and criticism in equal amounts. For every movement, there was an explanation, for every improvement there was room for more improvement. For the next two hours, Elimani hewed at her defense, and Caffrawen blocked him with growing skill. 

As he was refining her attack technique, already developed to some degree due to past experience - she let out an earsplitting war-cry as she feinted from left to right. Caffrawen was duly rewarded with the sensation of her wooden blade touching Elimani's chest - the sensation of victory.

"_Where_ in _Mordor_ did you pick that up?"

"Not in Mordor. In Ost-in-Edhil...the Dwarves had their '_Khazad! Khazad id'..._something or other. Frightened the orcs right off their feet."

Elimani tipped his head, brushing the sweat from his brow. "You are not a Dwarf."

Caffrawen grinned, a bit flushed with her success at getting through his defenses. "No, given my distinct lack of a beard, that should be obvious. But perhaps we should imitate the Dwarves in this."

"It's not a reliable tactic. Orcs are often in noisy environments."

"It worked on you."

His eyes darkened from amusement. "Aye. But I have lived among peacefully quiet Elven cities and abodes. If you used that war-cry, you'd probably startle the Elven-soldiers into getting killed. Then the orcs would laugh and welcome you into their ranks as one of their own."

Caffrawen chose to ignore the challenge to her playful insult. "Then perhaps we should toughen up our own soldiers. We could create a daily din in Imladris - beat cooking pans, bang hammers, pinch you..."

A low and sonorous voice interrupted her litany. "Or perhaps we could import some more Feanorians. Two or three per army camp should do the trick."

Elimani froze. Caffrawen tensed. 

Slowly they turned their heads up to the source of the voice. Leaning on a balcony rail, hawk-like noble features arranged in a placid gaze, stood an Elven _benn_. Silken hair of a shade even deeper and darker than Elimani's cascaded down to rest about his shoulders, which were encased in fine armor befitting his standing and stature. A purple cape, like a rivulet of wine, fell to his feet. Grey eyes mocked, molded lips quirked upward at one side of his mouth in an expression of bemusement.

Elrond, Lord of Imladris, one who had suffered mightily at the hands of _her_ family, stood looking down at the rebel-blooded daughter of the House of Feanor.

He inclined his head with the gesture of a king. "Good evening, Elimani and _Lady_ Caffrawen."

Gritting her teeth against the sting, Caffrawen bowed her head to him, parroting back his greetings. Dimly, she was aware of Elimani doing the same. 

Raising her head to glare back up at him, she saw his gaze still fixed on her, with all the air of a cat stalking its prey. 

"Lady Caffrawen, an issue has arisen that I feel requires some of your...erhem..._counsel_." Beside her, Caffrawen saw Elimani still his features and tighten his jaw, glaring up at the Lord who sheltered himself and his friend.

What emotions leapt between the space of Caffrawen and Elrond's eyes could have been felt by the most oblivious Elf watching. Admitting defeat in the war of wills, before the pause between his question and her response could grow awkward, Caffrawen inclined her head forward, breaking the heated gaze. 

"As my lord wishes."

He seemed pleased. "My study then, as soon as you are presentable. A pleasant evening, Elimani." He swiveled with unmatchable grace, and retreated through the balcony opening.

The dark shadow that had descended on the silent courtyard lifted with the exit of the Lord of Imladris. Caffrawen let loose a breath that she had not been aware of holding. Beside her, she heard Elimani's giddy laughter.

"What's so funny about me going to get my ears ripped off by Elrond?" she demanded.

"It...just hit me...out of all the possible places I could have chosen for us to...to practice...I had to pick the one right outside Elrond's study! And then you let out that war-cry..." he dissolved into chuckles again.

She growled at him mockingly, then tossed him her sword. He caught it deftly, and she began untucking the chemise and skirt from her belt, allowing them to return to their previous employment of hanging about her legs.

"I'm going to take a wild guess and wager that you aren't changing." Elimani said flippantly.

Caffrawen was quite aware of the fact that sweat stains were evident underneath her arms, spattered across her belly and underneath her breasts, and forming a bird's wing of wetness on her back. She smelled rank, her hair was unkempt, her face splattered with a liberal dousing of sweat and flour from the day's previous employment. Elimani was in a similar state. Caffrawen mused the possibilities of lighter clothing, if they were to continue practicing in the hottest hours of the summer days.

"You would be correct, my friend."

"You're just incurring his wrath. What's the harm of a few extra minutes spent cleaning up?"

"He has already set the tone for this meeting. You saw the way he looked at us."

Elimani shook his dark head, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "At you, rather. You know, people say that he is as kind as summer to all, that his heart knows few boundaries."

"I would suppose that, given the circumstances, I am one of those boundaries." Caffrawen paused a moment, gathering her thoughts. "He was actually rather civil to me when the Lothlorien contingent was visiting."

"I think that had more to do with the fact that he was distracted by a certain silver-haired maiden - what was her name? Oh, right, Celebrian. Shame we can't have them ship her up here. A lovesick lord, now that would ease the tension considerably, wouldn't it?"

Caffrawen threw her head back and laughed, tossing the sweetbread basket to him. Catching it, he gave her a mocking salute. "You who are about to die, we salute you!"

Grinning, she made her way out of the courtyard, when a thought turned her around. 

"Elimani?"

"Aye?"

"If you value your immortal life, don't eat the sweetbread that has been laid out on the tables. Trust me on this."

***

*In the Silmarillion, the beings created by Illuvatar in the Tolkien version of Genesis. The First-Born (those first to arrive on the scene) were the Elves. The Second-born were the race of Men.

*breech-bush - Where I live, there is a small bush that bears flowers that resemble pairs of white pants - called Dutchman's Breeches - used in past times by the Cherokee in the area as a fast-acting laxative. As there are no Dutchmen in Middle-Earth, the plant has had to be renamed a bit.

*Caffrawen's uncles Curufin (who is Celebrimbor's father) and Celegorm attempted to kidnap and/or kill Luthien Tinuviel, fairest of all the beings of Arda on multiple occasions. Celegorm, enamored with Luthien's beauty, attempted to wed her by force, and, failing that, attempted to kill her beloved Man, Beren. Beren got the upper hand, but Luthien forbid Celegorm's death. In gratitude, he attempted to shoot her and Beren as they rode away. Not a pleasant subject for a daughter of the House of Feanor.

*Numenorians, are, without dredging up a long bit of history, very long-lived humans who can average around 200 years on Arda. Aragorn was one, which explains why his hair was mysteriously free of grey hair on the Quest of the Ring, when his was eighty-odd years old.

*Giliath - "host of stars"

* Cugufain - literally, "white dove" and representative of peace. A misnomer if there ever was one.

*Elimani - "star-handed" - referencing his smith-skills.

__

Canon Deviation

-_ Not certain if this is a deviation or not, but Elrond's aversion to the House of Feanor stems from the attack in which Caffrawen's own father and the remaining members of the House of Feanor attacked the Exiles of Gondolin, of which the child Elrond, his twin brother Elros, and their mother Elwing were a part of. Elwing jumped into the sea bearing one of the long-sought Silmarils (though she did not die, she was parted from her sons till Elrond came to join her many years later in Valinor. Elros died.) Elrond and Elros were taken captive by the remaining sons of Feanor, Maedhros and Maglor. Since no timeline for the amount of time between Elrond and Elros's birth, and the flight of their mother, I am taking an artistic leap and assuming that they are extremely young - eight years - which would translate to four years' development for a child of Men. Though love of a fatherly nature sprang up between Maglor and the twins, I would assume that when they found out that Maglor had indeed driven their mother into the sea, parting them from her, they wouldn't be happy about that revelation. Though Elrond is indeed "as kind as summer", I can't imagine him reacting well to Feanorians after that. Marriage to Celebrian should straighten Elrond out._


	5. Rites and Wrongs

A/N: And here I thought this chapter would be shorter. Silly me. Oh, and I apologize for Galadriel and Celeborn appearing somewhat peripherally. If they hadn't, this thing would be about twenty pages! 

Standard Disclaimer: Tolkien's characters. I only own the author-invented ones, and I'm not making any profit off them, either.

Chapter Four: **_Rites and Wrongs_** (spelling is intentional)

__

Ost-in-Edhil, Second Age, 1200

"_Therefore Celebrimbor took thought, and began a long and delicate labour, and so for Galadriel he made the greatest of his works (save the Three Rings only). It is said that, more subtle and clear was the green gem that he made than that of Enerdhil, but yet its light had less power than that of Enerdhil. For whereas that of Enerdhil was lit by the Sun in its youth, already many years had passed ere Celebrimbor began his work, and nowhere on Middle-Earth was the light as clear as it had been, for though Morgoth had been thrust out into the Void and could not enter again, his far shadow lay upon it. Radiant nonetheless was the Elessar of Celebrimbor..." _from "The History of Galadriel and Celeborn" in The Unfinished Tales

Background Music: Xena: Warrior Princess, Volume 1, Track 26. "Going to Kill Me"

"_Just dissolve it_, you Valar-damned solution of brine and mud! Must the hammer and tongs of Aule* rust and break before you stir yourself to do what you were intended to do?"

"It's rather early in the morning for sacrilege, Caffra. What happens to be the problem?"

Caffrawen gave an irritated glance to the familiar voice of her cousin, a regular visitor in her workshop. Having taken up residence in Celebrimbor's home, Caffrawen had also found employment in the Smith's Quarter, crafting odd trinkets and jewelry to earn her keep. Her true passion, however, lay with the identification and experimentation of the various bits of rock and stone brought up by the Dwarves from nearby Dwarrowdelf. Bits and pieces of colored rock and granular powders were piled into various bits and pieces of chipped crockery, which were labeled by bits and pieces of makeshift wooden markers, all finding residence in her forge-storage.

"Of course it would happen! The very day after I present my findings about this new method of etching runes and devices into metal, the other Smiths would like to test it. All of my etched jewelry would go missing, leaving me no evidence that such a process is possible! And now, when I try to make strong acid out of burned pyrite, it _won't work_, belying my statements that such a process is normal." Caffrawen's glared at her cousin as if he could prevent her losing face before the other Smiths.

"I heard about the theft, Caffrawen. I'm so sorry - did you remember to lock up?" Thievery among Elves was extremely rare, yet the Smiths of Ost-in-Edhil made provisions to protect themselves from the small statistic.

"Locked up as I do every night," she said glumly, "but I can replace those losses if I could make some acid."

Languidly, Celebrimbor loped over to her glass jar of murky water and peered into it, seeing a large pile of ashen rock, stubbornly separate from the surrounding liquid. Then, his senses came fully awake, and recoiled from the jar.

"Faugh! What a stench!"

Caffrawen waved her hand disdainfully. "It's sulfuric, what did you expect? Your nose will deaden to the smell after some time. But Celebrimbor was shaking his head, grinning.

"That's not sulfur I'm smelling. It's vinegar." He sniffed the jar again, more carefully. "Apple vinegar, if I'm not mistaken."

Caffrawen made a choked sound of disbelief, and then leaned over to smell it herself. Now that she thought about it, the stench was rather more pungent than rotten in aroma. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Where did you draw this from?" 

Caffrawen knit her brow in confusion. "From my cooling trough. I don't understand...I filled it up with fresh water before I left for the night." Celebrimbor turned on his heel to inspect her iron trough. For the first time, Caffrawen noted that her cousin had forsaken his usual abominably sooty and stained work tunic. It was replaced by a blue tunic that rivaled the purity of sapphires, and streamlined his entire appearance, as normal clothes on the muscled Smith made him appear stocky.

Her surprise was interrupted by the problem at hand. "Whole basin's full of apple vinegar. I believe you are the recipient of a rather sly prank." He turned to look at her, somewhere between amusement and indignation. "They would have known your nose had been deadened to the smells. Do the apprentices pass by here often?"

"Not often. And I don't think that they would steal jewelry, for the same person who stole my etchings probably did this. It's only a minor setback, for I'll soon be making a worse stink with my solutions." She was irritated, that much was evident by the set of her shoulders and the tight line of her mouth. In a rapid mood change, her lips softened into a smug smile, and she made no bones about examining his finely clothed figure.

"Metals and forge-fires generally don't care how we're dressed. Are you attempting to impress a _gwenn_?"

He gave her a look that spoke volumes in the silent room. "Do you happen to remember that trencher-sized emerald I've been working on steadily for the past decade?"

"Vaguely."

He shot her a look of shock mixed with anger. It was too much for the teasing cousin. "The _El-ess-ar._" she said, dragging out the syllables. "Of course I remember it. What d'you take me for? It's all you have spoken of in that decade." Her voice took on a worried edge. "Dedication to our craft is one thing. It's another thing entirely to have your life revolve around a hunk of rock."

"Speak for yourself. When you see it and fully understand, you will know why I have dedicated so much of my life to its creation." He shifted on his feet uncertainly.

Caffrawen chuckled. "Don't tell me that you are dressing up especially for the Elessar's benefit. You may have finally lost your grip on reality."

"Certainly you've not forgotten that the Lady Galadriel arrives back today for the presentation ceremony of the Elessar _today_?"

"_Today_? As in today - next week?"

"Today as in _a few minutes_. Who's unsuitably dressed now?"

Caffrawen's hands flew to her hair, feeling the flyaway curls sticking out from her loosely bundled hair. Her pants and tunic were her work-clothes, and were appropriately slatternly, stains and acid burns pocking the coarse linen in odd places, with the finishing touch of a large hole above her knee that Celebrimbor had deemed 'immodest'. There was no time to go home and change.

"Cousin, do you have anything I could wear?"

"_Nothing._ You really did forget, didn't you?" He sighed. Caffrawen ignored him.

"A cloak?" His head shook. "A spare pair of trousers?" Another head shake. "A blanket? A curtain?"

"I am afraid you must attend as you are, Caffra. We must make a united front as a family...even if one is dressed properly, and the other is dressed as a farmer in the fields."

"I'll give you a united front." she growled. "At least let me wash up a bit." She pulled her hair free of its tie, shaking her head and letting the copper mass of strands tumble about her shoulders. Now that she resided in Ost-in-Edhil, she could take pride in her unique hair color, and forget about those she had inherited it from. Pulling open a drawer to retrieve a wiping rag, she caught sight of a flash of green. 

"So that's where I hid it!" Caffrawen grinned as she pulled out an emerald cloak. Celebrimbor looked as if he did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"Apparently, you're more well-organized than I thought." he remarked dryly. "Shall we?"

"Give me a moment, I need to wash my face. Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn arrived last evening?" Involved with her relief at finding the cloak, Caffrawen unthinkingly dipped a wiping rag into the cooling trough, as she had done thousands of times before.

"Aye. Apparently all is well in Lothlorien. Lady Galadriel, with her extraordinary senses, had an impression of forthcoming trouble, and wished to be here, in her city." His voice took on a reverent, almost dreamy quality that captured Caffrawen's attention fully.

"And Celeborn? Did he sense anything?" She wrung out the rag as a prelude to scrubbing her face.

"I do not know...I did not ask. Lady Galadriel, she is..._Caffra, that's vin-_" He stopped his flow of words as she gave a pained whimper, flinging the rag away from her face and clamping her hands over eyes that were surely burning terribly.

"-egar." he finished lamely. Slipping his arm about her waist, he guided her with long strides into the next Smith's workshop.

Trusting him in her blindness, Caffrawen peripherally felt a strong pair of arms steering her through the doorway. Most of her feeling, though, was centered on the throbbing burn of her eyes. A few more steps, and she heard Celebrimbor shouting at another Smith to make certain that the liquid in his own cooling trough was truly water. Once the perplexed Smith gave an affirmative, Celebrimbor braced her hands against the rim of trough, bent her head over, and poured water into her eyes, effectively washing off the vinegar around her tightly constricted eyelids. Now that she could safely open her eyes, Caffrawen ignored Celebrimbor's attempts to continue pouring water on her exposed eyes, and opted to instead dunk her own face in the trough, shaking her head and blinking furiously underwater. Sighing, Celebrimbor held back her hair.

Maltast*, the interrupted Smith, looked in confusion to the leader of his craft, then to Elimani, who had appeared in the doorway to see Celebrimbor pushing his cousin's face into Maltast's cooling trough. Caffrawen came up sputtering, and Maltast hurriedly proffered a rag.

"I'm not even going to ask." spoke the newly arrived Smith. Caffrawen's first sight once she had regained her vision was Elimani's sardonic expression, and she threw him a glare before scrubbing at her face.

"See what I have to do to make her presentable?" Celebrimbor grinned at Elimani. "Maltast, are you coming?"

The wiry _benn_ nodded in a jerky fashion, his hands moving reluctantly to abandon his hammer, and take up a cloak hanging nearby. Celebrimbor forcefully propelled a fuming Caffrawen out of Maltast's workshop, Elimani trailing behind, and retrieved her own cloak. Flinging it at her in impatience and nervousness, he tapped his foot restlessly while she fastened the buttons down to her knees. Elimani, with a practiced air, raked her cloaked figure with his eyes. 

"Made any necklaces recently?"

Caffrawen gave him another withering look. " If you hadn't heard, all mine have been stolen. And I wouldn't wear jewelry crafted for someone else. That's extremely bad taste."

"Pity. You'll have to wear mine, then. And my taste is even worse." He pulled a thin gilt chain from a pocket of his formal tunic, and wrapped it around her waist several times, securing it with an emerald pin, despite her protestations. The end result looked vaguely dress-like, at least enough to pass inspection.

"Well, Celebrimbor, you've bathed her, I've clothed her, and now all we have to do is keep her quiet till the ceremony ends." Elimani roared at his own jest, though Celebrimbor gave a half-hearted smile and clenched his hands in agitation.

"It isn't me you have to fuss over, Elimani. Look at Celebrimbor. We'll have to carry him to the presentation." She took her cousin's arm in her own. Elimani came to stand next to the Master Archival.

"Is it not amazing? He can command us like soldiers, speak to a group of fellow Smiths with all the authority of a schoolmaster, and lead the tavern-songs with Darvi like the most boisterous Dwarf ever to walk this land. Yet the prospect of presenting a public gift to Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn is making him blush like a maiden." Elimani's monologue had a more striking effect on the big Smith, and he seemed to take umbrage from its caustic effect, the color slowly draining from his face as his composure was once again settled. A gruff voice interrupted Caffrawen's attempts to smooth out his rumpled cloak.

"If you Elves are finished primping, perhaps we should get on with the reason for doing so?" Darvi*, chief liaison of the Dwarves to Ost-in-Edhil remarked drolly, as he stood, fists on hips in the doorway, a statuesque model for his race.

The Dwarf's shirt of steel, concealed by a braided leather overtunic, clinked as he restlessly shifted his weight. His coppery beard curled fiercely around the hard planes of his face, from which two clear blue eyes winked out at the world, hiding a shrewd and ruthlessly clever mind. Darvi exuded the stoic and powerful spirit of his race, drawing Caffrawen up sharply. In his regular stained leather apron, he seemed only a shorter version of her Smithing brethren. Oft had he appeared at her doorstep with 'an interesting specimen of mineral which you may find many uses for.'

Celebrimbor instantly brightened at the presence of his Dwarven friend. "We were on our way, but, as you can see, our path is obstructed by a rather large rock."

Darvi snorted. "No larger than those in your head, I'd wager. Shall we go, then?" He inclined his head in a formal fashion towards the doorway, his ceremonial manner instantly replacing his jovial one. Celebrimbor's brief lightheartedness was instantly quashed, his mouth instantly drooping. But he resolutely sped out of Caffrawen's workshop, Elimani at his side, until the irate Darvi halted them.

A stickler for courtesy, he took Caffrawen's arm and led her out before them _benn_, with what was perhaps a more pious air than necessary.

Now that she had a spare moment to think of it, only one person would have had access to the knowledge she had gathered, the fact that sulfur did not dissolve in vinegar - Elimani, translator and transcriber of notes. Had he also abducted her etchings as a prank? She had nearly stopped in her tracks with every intention of haranguing him until his ears fell off, but a glance to her left put a temporary halt to thoughts of retribution. 

About a year ago, his discreet tongue loosened by a pint or two of Darvi's malt beer, Celebrimbor had confided to her that in the Elessar, he hoped for the name of their House to regain good standing in general Elven society. The Elessar could only bring good, and Celebrimbor had not tied his life, heart, and soul to the stone. Only his hopes and dreams, for himself, and for Caffrawen.

__

And here I was, ready to stall him from the Elessar's presentation, so that I might rebuke a prankster! Shame, hot and prickly, poured down her spine and rested uncomfortably in her stomach and at the back of her neck.

As one, the little group stepped out into the sunlight and made their way to the home of Galadriel and Celeborn, rulers of Ost-in-Edhil.

It was a matter of habit that they threaded the cobblestone passageway through the domestic section of the city. It was a matter of chance that Arhael, having done with the bowl of water she and her husband used to wash their faces, thought it acceptable to wash the dirt from the cobblestones at her doorstep.

It was a matter of good fortune (on Darvi's part) that he had released Caffrawen's arm to trot ahead with Celebrimbor, while the equally fortunate Elimani brought up the rear.

One moment, Caffrawen's focus was centered on anticipating the presentation of the Elessar. The next, she was drawing in a sharp gasp at the shock of being hit by a torrent of water, soaking her cloak and hair, and filling her with horror. The autumn breezes chose that moment to make an appearance, chilling her as they played along her wet scalp.

"Celebrimbor! Your walking disaster just wet herself! I'd get a less dependent cousin in the future." Caffrawen readily forgave Elimani for this statement, for as he spoke, he was busily unclasping the necklace about her waist and pulling the cloak from her shoulders.

Arhael, horror-stricken at the results of her carelessness, was beside herself in apologies, ineffectively attempting to grab for the cloak to squeeze the water from it, and timidly proffering a hand-towel. Caffrawen did not dare gauge her cousin's mood. The only comfort she had was that it wasn't her fault.

"I'm so _dreadfully_ sorry! I didn't mean to splash you!" The distraught _bess_ was now attempting to help Caffrawen as she wrung water from her auburn tresses. "Is there anything - _anything_ I can do to help?"

Raising her eyes to meet Arhael's, Caffrawen pounced on her opportunity.

"There is. Would you happen to have a spare cloak to loan me?"

"I do! This way!" Arhael grasped her wrist and pulled her into the house. 

"Only a moment more, Celebrimbor!" she called out as she rounded the corner, counting herself blessed that she could not see his expression.

After a few moments of indecision, Arhael threw a chestnut-colored cloak, and commenced to fluttering about and attempting to wrap it about her, finally finding something useful to do by wrapping Elimani's chain about Caffrawen's waist. Amazingly, despite performing one of the quickest dressings Caffrawen had ever been witness to, her string of apologies never stopped, until Caffrawen gently took Arhael's hands in her own.

"There is no need for apology. You have given me the chance to go to the Lord and Lady in proper dress, and for that I thank you most sincerely." Her words stilled Arhael's agitated movement, but did not relieve the anxiety of her eyes.

"But your hair is still soaked!"

"It will dry quickly, and is less evident than appearing in just my ratty old tunic. I'll be back as soon as the ceremony is over to return this. Thank you, Arhael."

Reentering the street, she raised her eyes to meet Celebrimbor's. Amazingly, what she found within his blue depths both approval and amusement.

"Just not your day, eh, Caffra?" He grinned, the mischief brought back into his eyes by her mishap, a sight that warmed the pit of her stomach, an area that been rather cold all morning. He took her arm in his own gracefully, at the same time sending a warning look to Elimani to keep the air free from cutting remarks.

"Now let us hurry to the Lady Galadriel, before irony and mischance can find us again."

***

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Background Music: Xena: Warrior Princess, Volume 6, CD 1, Track 18, "Rhein Maidens"

The home of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel outshone every other abode in Ost-in-Edhil, as was fitting for the leaders of such a city. Fittingly constructed of white marble, the architect had opted for graceful curves instead of rigid, blockish lines. The domed structure was surrounded by gardens, and the Lady Galadriel had coaxed vines and other forms of green, clinging life to wrap themselves about her home, embracing it with their tendrils, adorning it with their blossoms. At the foot of a flight of steps leading to the door, a group of Smiths loitered, waiting for the arrival of their chief. About fifteen in number, they

As Celebrimbor's distinctive red hair came into view, they stood at attention, focused as soldiers. Among their ranks, Caffrawen spotted Erynloth, one of the female jewel-smiths with a gift for creating alloys, and Finervenn, the flashy Smith with a renowned skill for crafting rubies. Both were holding opposite ends of a small wooden litter, upon which a deep blue linen cloth covered a lump, which was, presumably, the Elessar. They looked to Celebrimbor for their cue, and Caffrawen squeezed his arm briefly before disengaging to join her fellow Smiths, Elimani and Darvi behind her.

Having ridden himself of his unease, at least in front of his charges, Celebrimbor strode to the head of the staircase with measured footsteps. He exuded authority, the very flap of his cloak as commanding as the snapping of an legion's standard in the wind. Catching glances at her fellow Smiths in her peripheral vision, Caffrawen saw their eyes follow Celebrimbor's every movement, even Elimani. The respect he held for her cousin, unfortunately, did not extend to her, and he contented himself with accidentally standing on her foot. Her first instinct being to kick, Caffrawen firmly repressed it and promised herself she'd not cause a scene. 

Elimani could just as easily be clouted after the ceremony as before it.

"My kindred," Celebrimbor began, arresting her attention, "today we stand on a threshold. For too long have our arts been reviled as troublesome, unnatural forays. All for the mistake of one _benn_ who could not share the wonders of his craft. Today, another creation will be revealed, but it shall not be restricted to the eyes of myself and my kin. I give, with total abdication of ownership, the Elessar, into the possession of Lady Galadriel, accounted wise and fair throughout all lands. The discretion of such a widely trusted leader with such an object may prove to the rest of Elvendom our pure intentions. I rely on each one of you to reflect such intentions and uphold our good names at this ceremony."

The Smiths all inclined their heads to their chief, asserting their compliance. The pale autumn sunshine warmed Celebrimbor's features, giving him a kingly aura, before he turned to the business at hand, casting his handsome face into shadow.

"Idiotic, ponderous Elves. He could just as well have said 'Our reputation is on the line, mind the manners your mother taught you. And just what was all that rigmarole about, anyway?" Darvi was, as always, impatient with the long and somewhat rambling speeches that Celebrimbor was fond of.

"He's rallying his troops. We've been given the reputations of selfish troublemakers and craven inventors, ever since the folly of Feanor with the Silmarils, by some of our kindred. Both he and I are descended from Feanor, who didn't like sharing, and then the...well..."

Darvi huffed impatiently. "All that I know. But what I _don't_ understand is _why_ Celebrimbor's making such a fuss over his giving of the Elessar to the Lady. Hand it over one night after supper, or maybe on her conception-day, that's what I would do."

Caffrawen grinned, never taking her eyes off her cousin as he hissed last-minute instructions to Erynloth and Finervenn. "Celebrimbor has his reasons. Feanor pursued the Silmarils ruthlessly across Arda, sending his sons to do the job when he died. If Celebrimbor creates from his skill of Smithing a useful hunk of pretty rock, and then publicly gives it away..."

"He reverses what Feanor did."

"Hmmmm. Or tries to, anyway. His Smiths would be the most likely folk to champion him if he wanted to reclaim the Elessar, so by giving our public approval, we reassure the other Elves of our feelings toward the Elessar. My cousin has done this for two reasons - for the healing of Middle-Earth, and the redemption of the House of Feanor in the eyes of others." She spoke each word with relish, beginning to realize, herself, the possibilities that Celebrimbor's labour presented.

"I would have said there were three reasons." Elimani was beside them, and for once his demeanor was sober, almost subdued as he glanced at Celebrimbor. The russet-headed Chief Archival was gazing with a fearful intensity at the front door of Celeborn and Galadriel's abode.

"What's the third?" Caffrawen asked, looking in surprise at him. As if to punctuate her statement, the noontime bells rang.

Elimani opened his mouth as if to speak, then changed his mind and pointed at the opening doors. 

Two _benn_ in formal dress pushed open the doors and held them, servants to the Lady and Lord of some sort. Turning her head just slightly, Caffrawen saw that a crowd of Elves had gathered behind them, craning necks and standing on tiptoe, attempting to get an unobstructed view of the Elessar and the Lady who was to wield it. A glimmer of white caught Caffrawen's eye, and she turned around to fully behold the Lord and Lady of Ost-in-Edhil.

Celeborn, silver of hair, lean of body, and hawk-like of visage, looked out at the gathered assembly with no hint of a smile on his face, only a calm passivity. Dressed in cloth of white lined with silver, he was impeccably poised and entirely aware of the ramifications of such a ceremony, his hand gently clasped in his lady's hand. Idly, Caffrawen mused that he could have given some sign of joy, if only for appearance's sake. Nor did she entirely like the look he cast at Celebrimbor.

Galadriel, on the other hand, was smiling and warm enough for the both of them. Her hair, renowned for its similarity to the Light of the Two Trees, cascaded in gold and silver waves down her back, making her a slender column of white. When Caffrawen had first beheld her, four hundred years previously, she wondered if the Lady was not indeed a marble statue come to life, so flawless and fair was her figure and skin. Yet marble was cold, and the Lady was warm, smiling radiantly as she beheld the assembled Elves. No conciliatory smile did she offer, but a genuine expression of pleasure at their presence. Sensing this, the Elves responded in kind. Clothed in a web of purest white edged with gold, the Lady Galadriel descended about halfway down the stairs on the arm of her husband. Her luminous eyes turned to Celebrimbor.

Out of the corner of her eye, Caffrawen had watched her cousin's reaction to the appearance of the Lord and Lady. Ever since the doors had opened, he stood straight as a cornstalk, his hands stilled to hang obediently at his sides. Once Galadriel turned her eyes on him, he stood, if possible, even straighter. His shoulder-blades were knit so tightly together, it was painful to look upon. With consciously fluid movements, he ascended a few more steps to stand before the Lord and Lady. He bowed to them both, and placed a kiss on the Lady's outstretched hand. 

Turning at an angle, so that he could face the assembly and yet also address the Lord and Lady of Ost-in-Edhil, Celebrimbor looked out over the Smiths. Caffrawen had only a moment to register the look of pride and joy on his face before a nudge from Elimani demanded that she awkwardly follow the examples of the other Smiths, who had arranged themselves in a semicircle at the foot of the stairs, standing at attention as their master began to speak.

"Good people of Ost-in-Edhil, of the bountiful lands of Eregion, you have been called here to witness something very simple. It is a gift-giving, in which I shall present the Lady Galadriel with a tool that may help her bring more joy to Ost-in-Edhil than her radiant presence does." The Lady remained cool and calm, as did her husband, but Caffrawen cringed at the flowery flattery. She'd remember to tease him about that later.

"Yet as is proper for a gift-giving, I give up complete and absolute ownership of this offering to the Lady Galadriel. Never will I again claim rights to it, nor will any of my blood. To this I swear and hold true!"

A brief silence. "And what do you swear by, Lord Celebrimbor?"* Caffrawen's mouth dropped open in shock.

"I swear by my own constancy, by my fortitude, and by my blood. I am fallible, and I dare not swear by anything or anyone that is not." Caffrawen felt like cheering. Undaunted, Celebrimbor continued, "I also expect those who follow me, my Smiths, to also disavow any claim that they think they might have on the Lady Galadriel's gift. Smiths, do you swear by the constancy of your selves and of your word?"

"_We swear_!" The jubilant reply echoed from the throats of seventeen Smiths, Caffrawen's own included. She saw both Galadriel and Celebrimbor give the same approving smile and nod. Celebrimbor then made a slight motion of his hand, as if to bring something forward. A low, hissing whisper caught her attention.

"_That's your signal, Caffra. You're supposed to help bring it up there!_" Elimani hissed.

Caffrawen started, feeling a sick sense of dread, like poison, spread through her stomach. She had not known that she was supposed to participate. "Me?"

"Yes, you. Now go!" Already embarrassed, she hurriedly stepped forward to cross over to the small wooden litter, where Finervenn was looking at her expectantly to take his place. Erynloth was already changing places with Agladir, the darkly shy silversmith who had accompanied Celebrimbor to Ost-in-Edhil. As she strode forward in front of Maltast, she felt her foot hit something solid, then, in horror, felt her entire body tip forward in what would be a graceless sprawl on the paving stones. To her increased mortification, she realized that her cloak had flipped up over her waist, revealing to all that, beneath the cloak, there was only a battered, hole-pocked tunic. Her wet hair slapped the paving stones.

The repressed snicker from Elimani was the first thing she was aware of. The next was Maltast, courteously helping her to her feet. Face burning and eyes downcast, she concentrated on taking hold of the litter's handles, not daring to think what might happen if she dropped the Elessar. Briefly glancing where she had fallen, she saw no evidence of any displaced paving stones. Nor had it been someone's foot that she had tripped over. But all questioning was wiped from her mind as she and Agladir began their ascent. Agladir was looking up as he carried, but Caffrawen could only trust herself to look at the feet of the Lords and Lady. She most certainly did not want to meet her cousin's eyes and face his disappointment.

Peripherally, she was aware of her wet hair leaving a dripping trail behind her as she ascended the stairs.

They reached the appointed spot below Celebrimbor. As he stepped forward, drawing the cloth from over the hallowed stone, she dared look up at him. 

She could have been mistaken, of course, but it seemed to Caffrawen that he winked in her direction, and a hint of a smile curled his thin lips.

Her attention refocusing on the Elessar, she watched as Celebrimbor cradled it gently in his great and rough Smith's hands, fingers wishing the emerald a silent good-bye, as he turned and stretched his arms forth to the Lady, beckoning her to take it. With another smile, gentler this time, the Lady Galadriel lightly clasped her hands over Celebrimbor's own in a gesture of thanks, before accepting the Elessar into her possession. Celebrimbor backstepped fluidly, then effortlessly bowed to Galadriel, blue cloak swishing about his ankles. 

After a moment of silence, in which Galadriel considered the treasure nestled in her palms. Lifting it with both hands, she held it aloft for the assembled Elves (and Darvi) to behold. The emerald itself was flawless, as pure in hue and clear as a cloudless sky. It put grass and summer leaves to shame with the intensity of its color, and, unless Caffrawen was mistaken, it was glowing slightly in the pale autumn light. The stone was mounted on the back of an exquisitely crafted silver eagle, wings outstretched as if in flight. From Caffrawen's close vantage point, she could see the detail that Celebrimbor had wrought in it, the individual feathers of the eagle's wings, demonstrating to all the purity of the silver. 

"_Behold the Elessar_!" Celeborn's voice rang out over the assembly. Though he attempted a smile, and achieved a genuine one when he saw his wife holding the emerald aloft, she could see, especially in her proximity, the dislike Celeborn held for Celebrimbor. 

Celebrimbor, however, was staring at Galadriel holding the Elessar, with no idea that he was being scrutinized. He had the expression of one who had found the fulfillment of their deepest dreams, his face bearing an almost dreamy expression, lips parted as he gazed up at the Lady holding his greatest work, and claiming it as her own.

The whisper of a suspicion started in Caffrawen's mind, but she dismissed it just as quickly. Couldn't be... 

Dimly she heard the cheering of the throng of Smiths and Elves, and her mind turned to the excitement at hand. Darvi was ascending the steps with a small bundle in his arms. Unwrapping the burlap-covered object, he held it aloft. A chrysanthemum plant, its roots bound in burlap, was revealed. In the current state of early autumn, it should have been blossoming with all its strength. Instead it withered, leaves limp and spotted, buds flaccid, and color dull. 

Galadriel understood at once. Caffrawen briefly saw her fingers tighten on the Elessar. In the next moment, all who came to the presentation were witness to a marvelous demonstration of the Elessar's power. The chrysanthemum instantly perked up, stems and leaves returning to a healthy state of green glossiness. The buds swelled, burst, and the plant bore a multitude of orange blossoms. 

A sigh of amazement fell over the assembly. On its heels came the raucous cheers - not only for the Lady and for Celebrimbor, but for the skill of their Smiths. Ost-in-Edhil had been inspired, designed, and constructed by the efforts of the Smiths. They now formed the heart of the city, much as the boat docks were the central feature of Mithlond. Her heart swelled with emotion. _We have done it! We have triumphed!_

Now if I can just get down these steps without tripping...

***

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Background Music: Xena: Warrior Princess, Volume 1, Track 26 "Going to Kill Me"

Later that day, after a brief and thankfully uneventful reception in the Lady Galadriel's gardens, Caffrawen returned to the Miner's Quarter. She and Galadriel had spoken briefly, and the Lady had reassured her embarrassment at her fall, and at her state of dress. She was reminded, yet again, why Galadriel inspired so much love among those who knew her.

Entering her workshop, she immediately set to draining the vinegar out from her cooling basin. Elimani had certainly gone to a lot of trouble to ensure her irritation. Her mind briefly ran through scenarios of tossing bits of magnesium into his fire, drilling tiny but damaging holes into his supply of quills, before the presence of the merry _benn_ himself put a hold on such plans.

"New orders for you, Caffra, and I'd hop to it if I were you. Finervenn's pretty anxious to get his hands on that sulfur mixture of yours. Oh, and a few commissions came in from Lothlorien with the Lord and Lady. You'll need to take at least three to spread 'em out evenly." He tossed her a sheaf of parchment. Catching it deftly, she looked up at him.

"You know, Elimani, it occurred to me that you are privy to many secrets of this hall. Many random facts, that if used in the correct context, could prove immensely incapacitating to someone's work." She spoke in dulcet tones, slowly rising from her seat and gliding over towards him. 

"Incapacitating?" he asked, feigning innocence. He must know that she referred to the vinegar and the stolen etchings!

"Aye. Driving one to distraction, almost. So I think that I need to tell you that whatever _games_ you have in store for me - they'll be played right back at you."

"I incapacitate you? I drive you to distraction? You want to play games with me?" His voice held a tone that she did not like, and his eyebrows were arching in a disconcerting manner. "Sweet maiden of the forge-fires, whose hair stinks of sulfur, and whose feet stumble on the ground!"

He fell dramatically to his knees, clasping both hands over his heart. "I can only say that I return your affection and love to the deepest depths of my being! I shall carry your hammer! I shall kiss the hem of your leggings, if you but touch those calloused hands to my cheek - or run them through my hair."

Caffrawen found that she could no longer remember why she had sought to tease him, as the blush in her cheeks rose and the suggestive look on his face grew even more devious. "Oh, get out."

"My own non-lady love!" He awkwardly shuffled towards her on his knees. 

"_Out!_" She threatened him with a chunk of pyrite.

After he had left, with many a false whimper and moan, she turned to the sheaf of parchment. Realizing that she could not read it, she sighed at her own incompetence and turned it upside down. To her irritation, the parchment was still illegible, but not through sloppy handwriting. _Quenya_.

The language she had forsworn and never learned. Of all languages to write in, why had Finervenn picked Quenya to place an order? Now she would need the aid of, of all people, Elimani. The bright spark of Feanorian ire within her only needed the proper amount of irritation and slights before it burst once more into raging flame. Adequate fuel had been provided.

Stalking out of her workshop, Quenya-lettered note wadded in her indignant fist, her mood fouler with each footstep, she sought Elimani's workshop in the Forum House. As the building that stood in pride of place in the Smith's Quarter, it housed only the most prominent and important Smiths. 

Ergo, Caffrawen had to cross the length of the Quarter to get there. 

Stomping up the stairs, all natural grace forgotten in the fury of slights wrecked upon her that day, Caffrawen entered Elimani's chamber. Looking up from his normal scattering of parchment and paper on his desk, Elimani had the grace to look apprehensive.

"Anything I can do for you, Caffra?" For all his playful demeanor, he could change instantly to a calm, professional manner with a speed that was unnerving.

Inwardly, Caffrawen groaned. Why did she suddenly forget all her sense of purpose when he fixed those intent brown eyes on her? Dismissing it as a symptom of irritation, she held up the parchment between thumb and forefinger. "_This_. Finervenn's written it in that thrice-cursed archaic language which almost _no one_ uses anyone. Does that peacock of a ruby-crafter think that by annoying the rest of us enough, he'll revive the language all on its own? If he wants to bring it back into everyday use, he'd damn well better not use it with me. And furthermore..." she broke off at the look on Elimani's face. 

He regarded her as one would a temperamental geyser, slightly stunned. Caffrawen instantly regretted her behavior for the third or fourth time that day, closing her eyes and sighing slightly.

"I'm sorry, Elimani. Things have gone wrong today for me since the moment I got up, and I'm taking it out on the wrong person. For once, the world is with me, not against me, and I'm dwelling on the silly little difficulties. I'm sorry I yelled, I'm sorry I..."

"Got out of bed this morning?"

"Aye." she said, subdued.

He chuckled, and she looked up at that. "I accept all apologies. Comes with being the messenger - it's simply a fancy name for scapegoat."

She cringed. "I'm sorr..." 

He cut her off again. "I already accepted. There's a nice long Quenya-Sindarin wordlist back on that shelf. Big red one." He smiled then, a genuine curl of the lips that reached both his eyes, and the pit of her stomach. Concentrating on the task at hand, she thanked him and stepped purposefully towards the bookshelf. Above her head was the desired wordlist. Using both hands to pry it out, she was perplexed for a fraction of a second, when it seemed to be stuck. 

In the next fraction of a second, the wordlist fell heavily into her hands. Unfortunately, it also brought the rest of the shelf with it, on top of her head. Putting her arms over her head to shield herself from the rain of books, she instinctively hunched down in a defensive position. Heavy mining and smithing manuals rained down on her body. Amidst the heartbreaking sound of books colliding with the hard marble floor, she could hear Elimani's stifled cry of inquiry as he rose to her side.

Looking up at him guiltily, she saw only concern. "You're not hurt? They didn't hit anything important?"

She reached up, pinching the bridge of her nose and rubbing her eyes. "No. Just my pride."

"Just not your day, is it?" He chuckled again, and Caffrawen found a release for her frustration as she laughed with him. He encircled her shoulders with one of his arms in a companionable fashion, pulling her from the pile of books about her feet. "Here, I've just the cure. Go home and change..." here he paused, taking a deep sniff of the air, "...bathe, and I'll come for you at about sunset. We can join your cousin and Darvi, they should be making the rounds at all the correct carousing establishments."

"My work?" She gestured to the Quenya parchment from where it had sheltered under the wordlist.

"Can wait." he finished. "Thinking upon it, I realize that there are several things I'd rather be doing than attempting to decipher your cousin's scrawl. Sunset, then?"

Caffrawen grinned at him then, unaware at how it made her face light up, and the difference in countenance she displayed. "Depend upon it."

He turned to leave, then, as if caught by a sudden thought, swiveled back around to catch her eyes. "Caffra?"

"Hm?"

He reached up, as if to cradle her face, but instead, pinched her cheeks. "Stop taking everything so Valar-damned seriously. If not, I'll have to beat it out of you in another quarterstaff match."

"You've not beaten me once during our sparring, Elimani...oh." she broke off.

"Quick learner." He was out of the archway before she could throw a retort at him.

***

When she arrived at home, Caffrawen was unsurprised to find that Celebrimbor was absent. He most certainly deserved a break from the tension, after a decade-long period of waiting, worrying, and watching. Bathing, she felt all stress melt away from her muscles, as she worked at clearing the rotten-egg stench of sulfur from her hair.

After drying her hair by the fireside, Caffrawen dressed simply in a green gown that complimented her russet locks. Taking a brief look in the mirror at her physical features, the telltale red hair, she began to contemplate her heritage. Was this step of Celebrimbor's the first step towards the forgiveness of their House? Had he single-handedly gained their acceptance in all of Elvendom? It was certainly an agreeable prospect to her...the polite tap at the door halted her thoughts on the subject.

Elimani, dressed debonairly in red, checked momentarily at her appearance. With a move she had not anticipated, he was drawing the hem of her dress up to her calf, with no apparent regard for propriety. 

"_Elimani_!" she sputtered in indignation, as he dropped the hem and attempted a bland expression.

"I was checking for your ratty old trousers," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "Are you done being serious?"

She glared at him a moment more before holding out her arm imperiously. "Yes. Just remember this when all of your quills no longer hold ink."

"Well-warned, my non-lady, well-warned." He took her arm and led her out, making her laugh over some tale or another of one of his experimentations with Dwarvish beer. He distracted her so artfully that she did not realize that they were nowhere near any of the drinking establishments in Ost-in-Edhil.

"Where are we going?" Caffrawen regarded Elimani with suspicion as they approached an old smithing storehouse on the edges of the Smith's Quarter. The Quarter itself was ominously quiet, but she supposed that other Smiths had felt the urge to drop their hammers and celebrate with their leader.

"It looks like a storehouse to me, Caffra." he deadpanned. "And I need to check and see if that supply of bauxite came in today. Haven't had a chance, what with all the excitement." His voice was just a bit _too_ casual, and from this she took her warning. 

"And just what were you doing all day that was so much more important than seeing to an import? If I walk in that door, I'm going to be hit by eggs, aren't I? Or you'll shove me inside and lock the door, leaving me to try and find a way out? Is that it, Elimani?" Her tirade was cut off at the expression on his face. He reminded her of an Elfling whose feelings had been hurt, eyes widening and looking down, mouth drooping in a small pout. She instantly regretted her words.

"Caffrawen, I brought you out here because I enjoy your company, your quick mind, and the fact that you respond to my teasing. I'm not trying to trick you...I thought I made that clear this afternoon." His low mournful voice made her insides wrench in guilt. She responded in the only way she knew how to reassure anyone, pulling him into an embrace, feeling his arms hesitate, then enfolding her in his arms in his turn, before she released him. 

"Come on. I'll go first, if it'll ease your mind." He made as if to step forward, but Caffrawen restrained him with a hand on his arm.

"No. I trust you Elimani. This day...it's as if Ost-in-Edhil herself were out to wear me down through a thousand different annoyances." She unbolted the double doors, then gasped as she saw the warehouse's insides. Taking no chances, Elimani shoved her in, and bolted the door behind him.

***

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Background Music: Xena: Warrior Princess, Volume 6, CD 1, Track 16, "On a Cow"

Its interiors blazing with light, Caffrawen saw that the warehouse had been converted into a celebration hall. About a dozen wooden tables lined a pathway from the door at which Caffrawen stood, to a raised dais. At these tables were seated Smiths of the highest degrees, their chattering pausing when she appeared in the doorway, then rising with greater fervor.

Standing at the dais, however, was Celebrimbor, resplendent in blue, and grinning wide enough to split his features. Beside him stood Agladir and Darvi, holding her missing acid-etched jewelry before them on a long table. Dimly, she realized that Elimani was closing the doors behind them with a clang.

Wildly, Caffrawen looked around at the individual Smiths, attempting to gage the mood of the crowd. Was she on trial, in trouble? But no, Celebrimbor wouldn't be smiling in that case. From the bright eyes, half smiles, and shifting legs of the assembled Smiths, she judged it to be happy anticipation that held this crowd.

Opening her mouth to question Elimani, she was cut off abruptly by a surprising boom from the _benn_ behind her. "_The doors are shut and sealed, my Lord Celebrimbor!_" 

Celebrimbor acknowledged this with a nod, then motioned for silence from the crowd. Slowly and deliberately, he placed his hands on the tabletop, staring down at her from across the room. Completely confounded, Caffrawen stared right back with bewilderment written across her face.

"You are Caffrawen, of the House of Feanor, a Smith of Ost-in-Edhil for the past four hundred years. Is this correct?" Celebrimbor spoke in a strident voice, entirely composed as Caffrawen groped for a reply, attempting to stir her wits into overdrive.

"I am." What else could she say?

"You are the Smith to develop a technique of 'acid etchings', are you not?" 

"Yes?" What was this all about?

"_Brotherhood! You have seen and witnessed the workings of Caffrawen of the House of Feanor. Is she worthy to walk up and be counted among our number?"_ Celebrimbor's bellows never failed to make her flinch - he so rarely raised his voice above a casual volume. 

"_Aye!_" The assentrang out in the hall, echoed in the throat of every Elf and Dwarf present. Caffrawen had the uneasy feeling that she was being awarded some honor without even knowing what that honor was. Her eyes ranged over the audience before they came to rest again on her cousin's face. He held her gaze, as palpable as a steadying hand. Then he straightened, standing tall once more, and brought his fist down on the table with a sharp thud.

"_Walk!_" he boomed. Catching the tempo, the rest of the Smiths started banging their fists and repeating the cry. "_Walk...Walk...Walk!_"

Caffrawen, her mouth dry and slightly agape, felt Elimani press the small of her back with his palm in both an encouraging and compelling touch. Dimly, as she began to walk up the aisle of Smiths' tables, she heard him echoing the cry, albeit in a different style. "_Run...Trip...Fall!_"

Walking down the aisle, she began to pick out faces...Maltast...Erynloth...Thinath...Finervenn, damn the peacock. Celebrimbor had moved to stand before the table, and extended a hand to help her up. Behind her the cries and the fist-banging had reached a fever-pitch. Taking his hand, she found she could not formulate a sentence to ask a question.

"Why?" she ventured quietly. But apparently, the ritual was not quite finished, and Celebrimbor took her hand, raising it aloft.

"_I give you Caffrawen, daughter of the House of Feanor, and now an honored member of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain!_"

The Smiths cheered once more, then looked at Celebrimbor expectantly. His lips twisted in a half-smile as he glanced over them. "Come now," he said, voice ringing with authority, " I am not your mothers. You do not need my consent to start eating." A more hearty cheer was lifted, followed by the scrape of chairs against stone flooring, as the Smiths - the Gwaith-i-Mirdain? - hurried over to a potluck gathering of food on one table.

Darvi leaned across the table. "I'll fetch the two of you a meal. You've a lot of explaining to do, my friend."

Celebrimbor smiled over at him. "Would you mind picking up a second helping of Thinath's sweet potatoes? I've a weakness for them."

The Dwarf chuckled throatily. "So that's why you've scheduled so many meetings lately." He turned to join the line.

Celebrimbor turned and opened his mouth to speak, but Caffrawen cut him off. "No pleasantries. Explain. Now."

"Very well." He guided them to seats on the dais.

"Some time before you arrived here, it became evident to myself and to others that Ost-in-Edhil was going to be primarily a Smithing city. We remembered all too well what happened to Gondolin*, and we know all too well the dangers of living in Middle-Earth." He paused, idly running his fingers across the tabletop.

"The art of the Smith is such that we can create works of beauty, works of industry, or works of war. What would be the cost if the knowledge we had entrusted to the benefit of the defense of the Children of Illuvatar was betrayed? Used right back against us? Among the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, the people of the Jewel-Smiths, there is security. We control the information, we alone know of and make decisions based on the research and crafts we develop. No outside interference, no possible informants. By forming the brotherhood, we make it less likely for any craftsman to betray us."

Caffrawen absorbed this. "I assume you are the leader. What kind of power do Galadriel and Celeborn wield in such decisions?"

Celebrimbor flinched slightly, and she saw guilt creep into his features and make a nest in his eyes. "No one knows of us, except for the people in this room. These decisions are made by Smiths, for Smiths. We rule ourselves."

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We rule ourselves. Is that not what Feanor and his sons were trying to prove? But she pushed the thought aside and nodded. "Why was I let in?"

"You proved yourself with the acid-work. It demonstrates that you are willing to think beyond set procedures, and consider new possibilities. A must for a member of the Brotherhood."

"I am female."

"Obviously. You are a brother to me in the same sense that Darvi is a brother to me. Not in the literal sense." He paused, and his face lightened. "Fittingly, your new brothers put you through a host of small trials today to prove your suitability."

Caffrawen began to sputter with rage. "You mean to tell me..."

"That we tested you, yes. You can deal with setbacks, as proven by the loss of your acid-etched jewelry. You can be persistent, as I witnessed when you kept attempting to make strong acid by combining vinegar with sulfur. You can substitute needed items, as I witnessed when you used the cloak and chain instead of going home to change. You can deal with public embarrassment, as seen by all when you tripped. You can be called to perform public tasks on a moment's notice, when I asked you to carry the Elessar up the steps. You demand information, when you stormed into Elimani's office with the Quenya letter. You did not panic when a date snuck up on you..."

"You lied!"

"Only a little. And before you blame the vinegar in your eyes on me, that was your own fault."

She glared at him. "And the water?"

"Pure mischance."

"Wait...you meant to make me trip? How did you accomplish that?"

"Maltast?" Celebrimbor addressed the Smith before him. "Show her your leg."

With a grin, Maltast pulled up his legging a bit to reveal a jointed piece of wood, which he controlled through a hole in his pocket. The wooden stick had slid forward at the correct time to trip her, then was just as easily hidden within his cloak. Caffrawen sighed in defeat.

"The books on my head?"

"Probably Elimani going a bit overboard. But he apologized quite charmingly, didn't he?"

Caffrawen turned away from her cousin's speculative gaze. "So I am now a member of this secret society, am I not?"

"You walked the tables. Would you rather be somewhere else?"

Caffrawen took a moment to peruse the bright, inquisitive eyes of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, the spark of intelligence that shone in them all. The camaraderie as they argued, Dwarf and Elf, wood crafter and blacksmith. The sense of purpose and hope within them all. She sighed happily.

"I don't suppose I have a choice, do I?"

***

Later that evening, Celebrimbor and Caffrawen walked merrily down the cobblestoned lane, seeking their home. It was quite late, the darkest part of the night, in fact, but the chill autumn breezes seemed only brisk and invigorating, the unnatural stillness that fell seemed unimportant as the basked in the glow of their individual triumphs. 

Had they been more aware, they might have had some inkling of forthcoming danger.

"Lord Celebrimbor and Lady Caffrawen?"

They turned as one, seeing two forms, the uncloaked one being Failar the guard, who looked rather pale, even in the moonlight. The cloaked one stood tall, almost menacingly, a few steps behind the guard.

"Yes?" Celebrimbor answered for the both of them.

"This visitor had asked to be brought straight to you after he had found lodgings. No weapons on him, but I don't recognize the name." He lowered his voice to just below a whisper. "I'm no idiot. There are three guards covering him from the rooftops, until you give the say-so, Lord Celebrimbor."

"Thank you, Failar." Celebrimbor murmured, his eyes on the shadowed figure. "Who are you, sir?" he said, addressing the stranger.

The dark, indistinguishable head turned slightly to face Celebrimbor. Caffrawen felt a slight twinge of fear, possibly even loathing at that innocent gesture, but she quenched it quickly.

An voice, pleasant, but low and oily, issued from the figure. "I am here on a mission to help all of Arda. I have been sent by the Valar to assist you, Lord Celebrimbor. Assist you both in your mission to guard the Children of Illuvatar, and to redeem the House of your family."

Celebrimbor gaped at him a moment. "And what proof do you offer to support such a claim, sir?"

"Knowledge," the figure purred, "Knowledge gleaned from Aule to help your reach the height of your skills."

"Your name, sir?"

The figure paused. If Caffrawen didn't know better, she'd have thought that he smiled.

"I am Lord Annatar. Lord of Gifts, and a friend of Enerdhil's. He sends you his greetings and his wishes for your success." Celebrimbor looked for a long moment at the figure, then opened his arms wide in a gesture of hospitality.

"Welcome to Ost-in-Edhil, Lord Annatar."

Unbidden, a shudder went down Caffrawen's spine.

***

*Aule was one of the Valar, a Smithing deity who is also responsible for creating the race of Dwarves. Yes, Caffrawen has a bit of a cursing problem.

*Feanor and his sons swore Everlasting Darkness upon themselves if they failed in their task to reclaim the Silmarils. The profundity of such an Oath led to death and destruction for many Elves. Celeborn has a valid point in asking Celebrimbor just what he is swearing by.

*Gondolin's location and weakness was betrayed by the disaffected Elf Maeglin. Security about such things would probably have been stepped up a notch afterwards.

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Canon Deviations

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*The typical lifespan of a healthy Dwarf who dies in his old age is about 250 years. Since Narvi, elf-friend to Celebrimbor, is needed for important events down the road, logic states that he would not have been born at this stage in time. Darvi is his author-created grandfather, as Dwarves, contrary to belief, do not spring from rocks.

*The presentation of the Elessar was left rather open-ended in the Silmarillion, only that Celebrimbor made it specifically for, and gave it only to Galadriel. Make what you will of that...

*Very little is known of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, only that they existed, were secret from Galadriel and Celeborn, and what their greatest works were. Their purpose and rituals are all author-invented.

*As pointed out kindly by justo, whom I wish would have left an e-mail address to correspond with, it might not be that all of the sons of Feanor were red-haired. I was using the hair color for symbolism, and I haven't yet found any reference to their specific hair colors. If anyone would like to set me straight, please do not hesitate to do so!

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* The spirit of the tradition of 'walking the tables' is borrowed in part from Anne McCaffrey's Dragons of Pern series. No offense is intended to the great lady.

No eyes were burned out, no jewelry was stolen, no public embarrassments were made, no water was dumped, and no pranks were played during the writing of this chapter. All in all, it was a pretty good day. 


	6. A Bid For Time

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This chapter dedicated to all those who already have or will be starting school. Best of luck!

Standard Disclaimer- Tolkien's World. Not mine, but he lets us play in his backyard.

Chapter Five - **A Bid For Time**

Imladris, 3441, Second Age, Taking place immediately after the events of Chapter Three

"And it was deemed that the dealing of death, even when lawful or under necessity, diminished the power of healing, and that the virtue of the bess_ in this matter was due rather to their abstaining from hunting or war than to any special power that went with their womanhood...On the other hand, many elven-men were great healers and skilled in the lore of living bodies, though such elven-men abstained from hunting, and went not to war until the last need." - _from The Later Quenta Silmarillion in Morgoth's Ring

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"But low in the South one star shone red. Every night, as the Moon waned again, it shone brighter and brighter. Frodo could see it from his window, deep in the heavens, burning like a watchful eye that glared above the trees on the brink of the valley." - from The Ring Goes South in The Fellowship of the Ring

Background Music: _Xena: Warrior Princess, Volume 6, CD 1 - "Valhalla"_

Elrond always had been and always would be associated with the knot in her stomach, of that Caffrawen was certain. There was no mistaking the cool power in his voice, the subtle power in the very swish of his cloak. Just as certain of that was she of the fact that he was on the side of Light and Good.

So if he was averse to her, what side was she on?

Pushing aside such thoughts, she strode briskly up the stairwell, richly hung with embroidered tapestries to warm the bareness of the stone. Pausing before the great wooden door, she listened closely, attempting to discern any others closeted with Elrond. If Gil-galad, King of the Elves, or Elendil, King of Men, were taking counsel with Elrond in his study, she would turn around and make herself presentable. If it was Elrond, he could deal with it, in the same fashion that both he and she had put up with each other's habits and barbs.

Discerning that only Elrond was within, Caffrawen rapped on the door sharply, pausing as her knocks shattered the silence of the stairwell, unnaturally loud in her ears.

"Enter." Elrond's voice was still smooth as silk, playing on her ears before descending to knot in her stomach.

Pushing the door open, Caffrawen found herself in Elrond's private study. He had not looked up at her yet, so for the moment, she was able to study his face in profile. 

Inky black hair, restrained with archer's braids, fell down his back in rich waves. As he leaned over the desk, head bent as he inscribed a few last letters, Caffrawen realized that his head was encircled by stars, the crown of his head silhouetted against the night sky visible through the balcony. The rest of him, however, was firmly entrenched in his natural habitat - a candlelit library. His features were nobly set, high cheekbones rising to meet grey eyes that were half-lidded as he finished whatever parchment he had been working on. His nose was large, but since it was in proportion with the rest of his golden-skinned face, it did not figure prominently in his features. A lean, muscular frame was draped in a purple tunic. Handsome? Much as he irked Caffrawen, she knew that to deny the truth of his beauty would be an outright lie in anyone's book. 

This Elf, or rather, half-Elf, was an eternal puzzle to Caffrawen. How could one Elf have so many skills in so many opposing areas? Elrond's healing skills were unmatched, for he could bring back Elves that most had bidden a farewell to Mandos*. Scholarly, he had a bent towards reading and writing that Caffrawen had never had, besides the old Smithing manuals. Most unfairly, however, he could wield nearly any weapon with grace, as befitted the adopted son of King Gil-galad. 

No Elf could be both a healer and warrior; it was against their nature. If a healer Elf took up weapons and started practicing with them, he lost his skill with medicine. Likewise, if a warrior Elf began to study and practice the healing arts, he lost his fighting instincts. It was as Illuvatar decreed - that an Elf have the power to protect Arda, or to heal it. So how was it, she wondered with great vexation, that Elrond could be of dual nature? Men were said to have the power to excel in widely different skills, and Elrond did have the blood of Men in him, even though he had chosen to honor his Elven heritage. It was the only explanation that Caffrawen could come up with, though she'd thought long and hard on the matter, until her friend Giliath remarked that she was entirely too preoccupied with the question.

Elrond turned to her, eyes briefly taking into account her disheveled, sweat-soaked appearance before fixing on her face, framed with curly red tendrils. If it gave him pause, he did not show it, and the half-dozen taunts he could have made about her physical appearance went unsaid. _He is nothing, if not surprising_, Caffrawen admitted to herself.

"You wished to speak with me, Lord Elrond?"

"Yes, Caffrawen. Please sit down." He gestured vaguely towards a wooden chair behind her. Caffrawen obliged with conscious grace, and then raised her eyebrows expectantly at her Lord.

He made no preamble, but went straight to the point. "Caffrawen, it has come to my attention that certain members of the household staff - Cugufain, was it, this morning? - find your continued presence in this household most distressing. As Master of the House, I feel it is my place to step in and stop matters before they grow out of hand."

Wild hope flared within Caffrawen. Was Elrond finally coming to her side, symbolically forgiving her and her House by championing her? "It surprises me not, given the times as of late."

"Oh?" Elrond cocked a surprisingly limber eyebrow at her. 

"Besides the fact that several of them have lost members of their family to my family's swords, there is the matter of the upcoming march on Mordor. Sauron rose to power quickly, through the aid of myself and the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, and if we had listened less to Sauron and more to the warnings in our hearts, Numenor might not have been destroyed, and we might not be facing this upcoming war." She waited, breath suspended for his response.

"Whether the lesser Rings were crafted or not, we would be facing a war." Elrond's crisp voice reassured her.

"But the fact remains that less Elves and Men would have died if the Rings did not exist, which makes you, in part, a Kinslayer, making the behavior of the household staff justifiable." he continued, as impersonal as a stranger.

Caffrawen's head jerked up at the damning word. Fury raged within her, and her grey eyes blazed with a fire attributed only to the House of Feanor.* "_I...am...no...Kinslayer!_" she hissed. "_No Elf died by my hand!"_

"Not by your hand perhaps, but by the works your hand helped create." Elrond was mockingly unperturbed by her anger.

Caffrawen wrestled her rage to the ground, restrained it, and then swallowed it, knowing that she would need full concentration to match the Lord of Imladris in this battle. "I had no way of knowing that our creations would be used to such a purpose - they were intended to protect all Free Peoples of Middle-Earth, not destroy them."

"It makes little difference whether you are the one who crafted it, or the one who wielded it. And do not attempt to pretend that no warning was given. King Gil-galad sent messengers to Ost-in-Edhil warning them of the workings of Sauron-"

"Not of Sauron, my Lord," she broke in, "but of an untrustworthy presence. The name Sauron would have stood out on the messages, more so than 'untrustworthy presence.' Celebrimbor decided to trust another, and since my trust in my cousin - the leader of my craft - was stronger than my suspicions of an evil presence, I obeyed."

"Do not try and pass the guilt on to your cousin."

"I am doing nothing of the sort. Celebrimbor has had more than his share of grief for three immortal lifetimes. But I was his craftswoman as well as his cousin, and I obeyed orders."

"Even when those orders carry ill consequences?"

"My Lord, if King Gil-galad ordered you to accompany him on an impossible mission, to _create_ a possible victory against a terrible foe, to _craft_ a battle-plan that could just as easily save Middle-Earth as doom her, what would you do?" Her reference to the upcoming march on Mordor led by Kings Gil-galad and Elendil was unmistakable.

Elrond drew a deep breath. "I would follow orders."

"As would I. Because I knew, that if Celebrimbor ordered me to walk over a cliff, there would be something to cushion my fall." She paused for breath, then beat him to the pause and continued to speak.

"First things first, Elrond." He raised his eyebrow again at her lack of a formal title for him. "We knew exactly how dangerous the Rings were. After all, we crafted them! And we fought and died to great ruin to keep them out of Sauron's power. It is not as if we handed them over with a smile. Furthermore, Gil-galad himself wields one. Do you label him a Kinslayer? Should I be a Kinslayer for helping craft one Ring, and a blessing for helping craft another?"

"And secondly, if the wise and mind-reading Lady Galadriel could not discern his true identity, then how were we simple Smiths supposed to figure it out?"

He opened his beautiful mouth, shut it like a trap, and thinned his lips. The potent reminder of the faults of the Lady Galadriel, Elrond's possible future mother-in-law, had sealed her small speech. She had won this round with him, at least.

Shifting in his seat, well aware of her small victory, Elrond spoke again. "In any case, that is not why I summoned you here." Caffrawen felt a small surge of amusement at the speed with which he changed course.

"You cannot be happy here, Caffrawen. Most of the household staff reviles your very company, and but for a few friends out of Ost-in-Edhil - Elimani, Giliath - you are quite alone. Perhaps you would be happier somewhere else?"

Caffrawen stiffened, offended by his solution. "Somewhere else? Pray tell, my Lord, where would that be?"

"Mithlond is always in need of Smiths..."

"Smiths that do not bear a head full of red hair. I resorted to fifty years of living in the Wilds rather than live in Mithlond - which was, incidentally, much more lonesome than here. Anywhere else?"

"King Oropher's forest kingdom - Greenwood the Great, he calls it. Rather primitive - I hear that Oropher's hall is naught but a cavern, like a Dwarf-hall, but still quite livable."

"I hear that his folk are Silvan. In any other case, it might be an ideal option, as they are fairly indifferent to my background. However, I believe that King Oropher is Sindarin - a direct descendent of the Telerin folk."

"Why should that be a problem?" _Damn him_, Caffrawen thought, _he knows very well why it is a problem!_

"Most of my male relations instigated and carried out a massacre of the Teleri. Ergo, the Telerin folk don't care much for my family or its descendents."

"That is no fault of mine."

"_Nor is it of mine_!"

"Well then," Elrond continued calmly, amused at her irate tone, "there is always Lothlorien. Many folk that can still tolerate you have relocated there, and the majority of the Elves living under Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn are Noldorin Exiles. You would be well-received."

The thought had occurred to Caffrawen, and she had considered leaving for Lothlorien more than once. As Elrond made the proposition, she toyed once more with the notion. As always, she scotched the idea once she remembered her reason for staying in Imladris for so long, for no apparent purpose. 

"Elrond, you are aware, are you not, that the Lady Galadriel is still banned from entering Valinor?"

His jaw clenched a bit at the casual mention of the wrongdoing of his beloved Celebrian's mother. For her part in defying the Valar, a ban had been placed on Galadriel, preventing her from ever returning home to the blissful Elven haven.

Or perhaps he was annoyed at the fact that she had, for the second time, omitted his title. 

"There is not an Elf in Middle-Earth that is not aware of it, Caffrawen." he said curtly. "I fail to see how this relates to your continued presence in _my_ home."

Caffrawen gritted her teeth - had not she helped conceive and construct _his_ home? Had not she worked in _his_ home as meekly as a mouse in the nearly two millennia since then? _Patience...think through your anger..._

"Galadriel was exiled for defying the will of the Valar. The lesser Rings of Power, though made with the intent for protection, were used for evil purpose, used to dominate the wills of those who bore them. When I helped make the Rings, I was well aware that the power within the rings could dominate forms of life, bend them to the wielder's will. I assumed that this would not matter, as the Rings were intended to dominate evil."

"If you have a point, feel free to come to it, Caffrawen."

"My point is that I have now come to wonder if perhaps I am also exiled from Valinor. The power to dominate another's will is one that not even the Valar exercised. It is...a terrible crime...to exercise a power that our race was not meant to have."

"Such as the will to take the life of another Elf. Yes, I think I understand that. I do not see why that should make you reticent to abide in Lothlorien."

"Don't you?" she asked, unable to resist baiting him. "My crime - along with being a Noldor, _and_ with being of the House of Feanor damns me triply. So if I should wish for forgiveness and for an eventual passage to Valinor, I must find a task to complete for the good of the Free Peoples. The best place to be to find that task, is, naturally, with the combined army of Elves and Men."

Elrond gave her a very shrewd look. "So what you are saying, is that you are lingering about my abode, looking for a good deed powerful enough to wipe out your terrible crimes."

"Some might say I had already fulfilled that good deed by living under your rule for the past two millennia." Caffrawen amusedly watched Elrond's brow furrow as he attempted to determine whether her comment was flattery or insult. 

"Whether you fulfill the deed or not, it is not my charge to care for you while I do so. Your continued presence here has served to agitate other members of my household. Ergo, it is time for me to solve the problem. You cannot change what you are, and I cannot but sympathize with the sentiments of the other Elves. I believe it is time for you to remove yourself from Imladris."

Caffrawen stared at him in shock. Surely he couldn't mean it? Even being among those who reviled her was more appealing than endless centuries of loneliness. She'd had her taste of hermit life, and found that it did not appeal to her in the least.

"You are not content here, I am not content to have you here." he continued. "Perhaps there is a village of Men you might find residence within. But you cannot stay in Imladris."

Find residence with a village of Men? The idea was intriguing, made even more so by her meeting with Naimi, Romera, and Seatra earlier that day. They were certainly pleasant enough...would they react to news of her heritage with the same intensity of emotion that Elves did? But no, tempting as it was to spend more time with them and learn the ways of Men, Caffrawen knew that her own fate would be contingent upon her actions with other Elves. For now, she must abide with her own kind.

"I quite agree, Lord Elrond. Few things would please me more than to bid Imladris farewell. I will be leaving."

Elrond looked both delighted and suspicious - _suspicious about my easy acceptance_, she supposed. 

"Very well," he said slowly, "I will see to it that you are well provisioned for the journey. Would the end of this week be acceptable?"

"Elrond, I did not say when I was leaving. I am not leaving for some time yet."

"Then tomorrow will do nicely, I suppose?" he pressed further.

"It will not. I am not leaving, not yet."

"I am Lord of this home, Lady Caffrawen, and you would be wise to remember that before your refusal."

"But I do remember it. I remember that you are Elrond the Wise, famed for the exercise of your benevolent guidance to the rest of Middle-Earth. Skilled in debate, accounted with the gift of foresight, having the ability to sense a good offer when it comes your way. Therefore, I have a proposal for you, my Lord."

"And that would be..."

"Risielwen needs every available hand in the kitchens to keep all mouths fed and tempers soothed. It wouldn't improve her own temper to know that you had needlessly sent away a pair of capable hands, and the last thing you want in your kitchen is a disgruntled cook, my Lord."

She paused for breath. "So I propose that you allow me to stay in Imladris until the Armies leave. I shall never again step willingly into Imladris once they are gone." She could almost see the thought process through the other Elf's head, his grey eyes turned away as he considered her request.

Suddenly, with the force of a blow, his turbulent eyes met her own, measuring her, examining her, weighing both benefit and likelihood with his penetrating glare. Caffrawen felt her insides quake, as if she had not fully understood his power until that moment.

He held her gaze unblinkingly for several moments. "I find your proposal acceptable. On that very day?"

"Not a moment later."

He nodded acceptance. "Agreed then. A good night to you , Lady Caffrawen."

"And an even better one to you, Lord Elrond." She gave an ironic little bow before turning her back to him and stepping quickly out of the library, before the storm of her rage broke. Consciously focusing on shutting the door quietly, she chanced to hear a noise from Elrond that might have been a chuckle or a growl. With swift, purposeful steps, she made her way to her chamber. Any Elf that she passed deferred their step or glided out of her way, uneager to be on the receiving end of a Feanorian's ire.

With every intention of beating her pillow senseless from the insults she had received, she was surprised, and more than a little pleased to note that Elimani had left her wooden practice sword propped up innocuously beside her chamber door. Caffrawen's bad mood began to abate, and, upon opening the door, discovered a scrap of parchment in the clear and legible handwriting of Elimani the scribe. 

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Couldn't fit the sword under the door. Tomorrow evening, then? You bring a small dinner, I'll bring my charming self. I suggest the small landing on the path to the Bruinen. 

Hope Elrond didn't roast you too badly. Or perhaps the other way 'round?

-Elimani-

Lightness touched her heart, and an unbidden image of Elimani's grinning face came to the forefront of her mind. With a blush that confused her more than it embarrassed, she closed the door. 

Instantly, she was aware of the enclosing darkness, the feeling of not having enough room to move. Never before had she felt claustrophobic, but at this moment in time it rushed upon her like a maddened dog, Compounded with the pent-up emotion from her interview with Elrond, she acted purely on impulse and dashed out onto the long balcony that was shared by all _bess _on the hall.

***

Background Music: _Xena: Warrior Princess - Volume 6, CD 2 - "Sounds of Life and Death"_

The cool breeze was the first thing to shatter her sudden feeling of panic, a breath later she was caught by the scent of late-spring roses wafting up from a lower level. Opening eyes that she had not realized were closed, she focused on the push of glittering stars through the intensely crisp and clear evening sky. Earendil had only just begun his voyage through the sky, his pure light both a blessing and a torment to the daughter of the House of Feanor*.

She drew a deep breath to restore the tranquility of her mind, and became lost in a rapturous study of the stars. It was as if she had not truly discovered the grandeur of the night sky until that moment, as if she had never felt the cool radiance of starlight, nor realized just how many stars were in the sky.

Caffrawen felt very small at that moment, her sardonic facade and her calm composure lost, her _fea* _naked and exposed to the penetrating presence of Elbereth*, humbled and awestruck at the same moment. She lost her awareness of the stone beneath her, of the sheltering valley walls, of the vaguely raucous singing wafting in from Elendil's camp.

For her, there were only the stars, and her _fea_ rose up in glory to meet them. _Elbereth!_ her mind cried out, _Tell me, for you have seen many a destiny rise and fall below you! What is the destiny of Middle-Earth? What is the destiny for the Elves that linger? What is my own destiny?_

There was, as she expected, no answer, and with that thought, her _fea_ was once more comfortably housed within her body. She sighed, and took another breath. Looking southeasterly from the balcony, she saw a brightly burning red light, glimmering hotly on the horizon, filling her with disgust that it sought to add its glow among the stars. 

Caffrawen suddenly became aware of something clutched within her fist, and looking down, recognized it as the practice sword Elimani had gifted her with. Frowning, she realized that she could not remember carrying it out the balcony entrance. Yes, she clearly remembered pushing the door open with both hands free. 

Uneasily, she turned her gaze from the sword to the stars, eyebrows knit in consternation. Her eyes slid once again back to the red light on the horizon.

Mordor. Mount Doom. _Sauron_. 

Caffrawen's grip on the sword became tighter, glancing from the stars, to the faint crimson light of death, and to her sword.

__

My destiny?

She took up the sword in both hands, studying it as if seeing it for the first time. It was not so different from a quarterstaff, now that she thought about it. Her old familiar defense patterns, with some modifications, could just as easily work for the sword. 

Of course, it was not simple, she discovered, upon attempting to do a defensive twirl with her sword, and discovering that there was no counterbalancing weight. Other old patterns worked well, allowing her to form a series of cuts and blocks that was intended to eventually catch her opponent in his right thigh, or his heart.

The night wore on, and still she practiced. Giliath poked her head out onto the balcony once, but Caffrawen never registered her friend's amused gaze, so intent was she on her swordplay. Her concentration was born, half of her fury at Elrond, at Feanor, at her heritage. The other half was born of a sheer fascination with the movement of the blade, the manner in which she could turn it, the way in which she imagined her opponent to be fighting, the manner in which she responded.

Sometimes her thoughts were not even on the sword, and she lost herself in planning for times to come, how to achieve what was set before her.

Earendil continued on his nightly voyage, and the red glow from the southeast grew the slightest bit darker by early morning. When the steady chorus of crickets and cicadas began to die down and be replaced by the pre-dawn melody of birds, they found themselves accompanied by the _swish_ and _whoot_ of a wooden sword wielded against the air.

When the first ray of sunlight broke over the horizon, Caffrawen stopped short, momentarily dumbstruck by the passage of time. But then she shrugged it off, feeling that her body did not require any slumber for some time. 

__

What I do need, she thought wryly, stretching her arms above her head, and wrinkling her nose at the smell of her own rancid sweat, _is a good, long, soak!_ Tiptoeing to the communal bathroom, she rejoiced when she realized another _bess_ had just left, having left a pool full of lukewarm water, and began her daily ablutions.

***

Feeling a bit fresher, and determinedly cheerful about her time in Imladris to come, she stepped briskly through the hall to a small alcove where the kitchen crew dined. Only Giliath sat at one bench, calmly spooning porridge into her mouth, completely in contrast with the sparking energy of Caffrawen.

Plopping with no fanfare onto the bench opposite Giliath, she made no morning greeting, no inquiry to her health, fixing her friend with a stare that might have pinned an Elf against the wall. Most unnerving to Giliath was the steady, cheerful gaze that was at odds with the Elf's usual wry smirk. 

"Giliath, I think I've finally figured it out!" she crowed, giving in and speaking first. Giliath opened her mouth to question, but her friend cut her off, getting to the point first.

"What you've been trying to make me understand all these years, what both you and Elimani have been putting under my nose. It doesn't matter. _It truly doesn't matter!_"

"What doesn't matter?" Giliath said in a rush, still bewildered with Caffrawen's behavior, and truly irritated at being cut off.

"My bloodline! What people think of it! What people think of me because of it! It doesn't matter because _it truly doesn't matter!_"

Giliath's eyebrows knit together as she attempted to process and make sense of Caffrawen's ecstatic ramblings.

"Why doesn't it matter, Caffrawen?" A bit grumpily, she wondered if she would have to recite the 'who, what, where, when, and why' repertoire she'd developed as their friendship had grown. Caffrawen's moods were as changeable as the breeze.

"Because I care about what you think - and it doesn't matter to you! Because I care about what Elimani thinks - and it doesn't matter to him!" Caffrawen's grey eyes were dancing as if lit by flame. "Therefore, my dearest friend," she continued, clapping her hands on Giliath's shoulders from across the table, "If you ever, _ever_ see me in a bout of self-pity, or frustration, or I give you some sad, pathetic smile, I want you to punch me squarely in the jaw."

"No, the eye."

"Beg pardon?" Caffrawen seemed to relax a bit, sinking back onto the bench.

"If I punch you in the jaw, there's a bruise that could be explained from a natural accident. A bruise on the eye - that's harder to explain away, and it's even more deterrent to keep you from your bouts of sadness. Now, before you interrupt me again, might I ask what brought this all on? Elimani said Elrond called you in last night, and I saw you chopping at the air on the balcony. Now this change? What in the blazes of Mordor is going on?"

"What brought on the change? I have a hard time understanding that myself." Her thoughts shifted uneasily to the previous night, when she had felt the stars embrace her _fea_, when she had begged to know her destiny. A small shudder racked her frame, and she picked up the line of questioning before Giliath could notice it.

"Elrond has informed me that I am to leave Imladris. The day that the Armies leave, is the day that I leave."

"The day that you..."Giliath trailed off, her face a study of pain. They had been pleasant friends in Ost-in-Edhil, but since coming to Imladris, their friendship had become a steady source of support upon which to rely in times of trial. 

"The day that I leave." Caffrawen finished resolutely, her cheerful demeanor gone. "Elrond feels that a member of the House of Feanor in his abode causes too much strife and friction. I negotiated to stay until the Armies leave. Then I intend to go with them."

"You're leaving?" Giliath's voice cracked noticeably.

"I'm leaving to go fight. If we are victorious, then I can perhaps seek shelter in Greenwood - Oropher's kingdom. He might warm up to me if I fight, let me stay in his kingdom. If we aren't victorious, it won't really matter."

Giliath rubbed her eyes in frustration, and became even more irritated when moisture spilled out onto the digits. Chagrined, Caffrawen moved swiftly over to her friend's side. Defeated, Giliath accepted her friend's comfort and leaned her forehead against Caffrawen's shoulder, tears falling gently from her face and landing the sleeve.

"This war...it's real...isn't it?" she managed to gasp out.

"Aye." Caffrawen stroked the flaxen head leaning against her in despair.

"I thought that...I had seen the worst...it couldn't get worse...that we were safe here...and I didn't pay...attention...didn't want to...but if _Elrond_ is...sending out _bess_ to...to fight...it must be...very bad." she managed to work out between quiet sobs.

"Aye. It is bad. But not so bad that Elrond would change his mind about such a thing. All Elrond knows is that I am leaving the day the Armies leave. He knows not that I am accompanying them."

Giliath's tears quickly melded into laughter. "So that is why you bounded in like a frog! Oh, the look on his face..." she dissolved into a messy mixture of tears and giggles. Despite herself, Caffrawen managed a small grin.

"He'll have a hard time swallowing that." she confirmed. 

"Why?" Giliath questioned, aware that she was, once again, going through her litany of 'who, what, when, where, and why'.

"Why am I going?" Caffrawen questioned, partly to herself. "I suppose you could say that I am motivated by guilt, revenge, and spite, or perhaps a mixture of the three." She laughed, a short, barking cackle that had nothing to do with mirth.

"I also - however addled this thought is - feel my destiny lies toward the South - towards Mordor." The red light's malice had not faded from her mind with the glow of early morning.

"This isn't just some Feanorian attempt at sacrificial drama, is it? I'll punch you if it is." Caffrawen couldn't decide if her friend's voice was sarcastic or sorrowful.

"It's not. Honest to Illuvatar, I believe that I am meant to go that way." As she said the words, Caffrawen felt the ripple of excitement grow in her belly again. To death or glory, whatever the end result, she'd be doing something! 

Giliath sat up, resolve evident in the stiffness of her backbone, the tautness of her features. "So when do we leave?"

"End of summer, probably. Wait..._we_?" Caffrawen looked in astonishment at the pale and proud _bess_.

"_We_, Caffrawen. Or have you decided to pull an Elrond on me? I lost my blood-family when we came here, I'm not about to lose you or any of our other friends."

"I understand what you mean in coming, Giliath." She encircled the other _gwenn's_ shoulder, the pressure in her grip thanking her friend for her support. "But the others...we can't ask them to walk into possible death."

"Better that than leave them to certain death if we fail." She nodded to herself, grimly. Then, switching to a brighter note, "So shall we start learning to walk and talk like _benn_? If we're to tag along, we'd better start learning the ropes."

"No. Elrond's going to let us join his ranks, very aware of the fact that we are female." Caffrawen's grin resurfaced, and she felt a bit of anticipation rise within her at the thought of trapping the Lord of Imladris with his own words.

"How?" Giliath, her tears dried, an expression of perplexity crossing her face, followed quickly by suspicion. 

The grin from the diminutive Elf as she rose from her seat turned into a frankly devious expression. "Learning the ropes, learning to fight, that we'd better do. As for allowing us to join the Armies, you let me worry about that. I'll see you at lunch? We've some real planning to do."

Giliath smiled back in answer. Stepping lightly outside, Caffrawen headed out to the stack of soiled linens in the laundry closet. Once she was out of Giliath's earshot, she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Merciful Valar, _how am I going to convince Elrond?_" 

***

Background Music: _Xena: Warrior Princess, Volume 6, CD 2 - "Catching Fish"_

A peal of uninhibited laughter rang out from the Bruinen, followed by much splashing. Hefting her bulky withy-woven laundry basket, Caffrawen hurried her steps, cheered by the sound of mirth. 

The women had arrived before her, and from the looks of it, Seatra had challenged Naimi to a water fight. With a crow and a leap at odds with her grave appearance, Naimi had Seatra on the run, as they thrashed about, rinsing and stomping on linens on the rocky bed of the river. A quiet chuckle issued from a cove, where Romera patiently soaped and sanded the laundry against the heat of a sun-warmed boulder. Looking up, she spotted Caffrawen coming through the trees and waved a greeting, calling out to Naimi and Seatra to greet the newcomer as well. 

Naimi waved, but Seatra took the opportunity to tackle her, and the battle began anew. Dropping her bundle on the bank, Caffrawen clambered lightly up to Romera.

"I thought that humans reached their maturity by Naimi and Seatra's age." she said in greeting. The easy grin spread across her face to show that she meant no offense. 

Romera snorted, amusement lighting her eyes. "Try telling them that." She resumed her task, grinding away sweat and dirt from the cloth with a circular motion of soap and sand. Taking the linens and soap from her own pile, Caffrawen gathered a good handful of sand before seating herself next to the wraith-like woman and attending to her work.

"Are they sisters?" she asked Romera in an undertone, her eyes flickering over the similarities in the two young women. Same aquiline nose, same brown hair, same determined glint in their eyes.

"No," Romera said, a quiet smile lingering on her features, "Cousins. They grew up together in the same village. Swam together, gardened together, went off to help the family together."

"Went off to help the family?"

"The little village they lived in...was destroyed due to a band of rampaging orcs. They were extremely lucky, they had warning, and the family was able to hightail it to safety before the orcs arrived. They destroyed their own village...made the orcs think that no one lived nearby, that another band had already raided in that area. So they left it in peace, and have not yet returned. But since everything was destroyed, Naimi and Seatra have been working here, sending on what they've earned back home, to help their family get back on its feet." 

Caffrawen looked at the girls with new respect. To see something of such value to you destroyed by another...she could well appreciate that pain. But to destroy your home, your fields, your world...that required an immense amount of courage. Frivolous they might seem at the moment, but theirs was a mission of need. She said as much to Romera.

"Courage? Aye, they've courage enough between the two of them for the entire camp." She paused, and Caffrawen could feel a conversation change approaching.

"Have you heard any news of when the camp is moving out? One of the soldiers told me it would be in a fortnight, another...girl...told me they would move in a month." She gave a tight, unhappy smile. "I'm eager to hear the gossip of the Elves."

Caffrawen pressed her lips together in a tight line, giving a face to the general mood of tension and worry of every female in both camps. "I couldn't say for certain, but I think that we will move before the end of summer. Imladris would be hard-pressed to supply both camps over the winter, and Elendil and Gil-galad will be wanting to move before winter settles over the valley and over their path."

Romera looked down, her face a mirror of Caffrawen's. 

"The end of summer?" she asked, her voice only a whisper. Peripherally, Caffrawen was aware of Naimi and Seatra halting their water-fight, and coming to stand alongside the rock, water streaming down their flushed faces.

"I think so. Fear not, our Men and Elves are bold, and with our two nations working in concert, Sauron cannot stand." She attempted to give her voice more confidence than she felt, suddenly imagining the forces that could be contained within the Vale of Imladris, against all those that could be contained within Mordor and beyond. Had she spoken words to Giliath that morning that she could not live up to? The question was pushed to the back of her mind. There it shifted as uneasily as a pile of leaves caught in an autumn wind.

"Oh, our Men and Elves are brave enough, I suppose." Seatra's overly bright tone caught their attention and pulled them from individual miseries. "And since we are speaking of only the happiest, most optimistic things, shall we move on? Caffrawen, you haven't yet asked me if I had a sweetheart back in camp."

Caffrawen, relieved that no one would break into tears in the five minutes since she had arrived, felt a small smile tug at her lips. Romera looked grateful, while Naimi regarded her with vague irritation.

"So, Seatra, what's this I hear about you having a sweetheart back in camp?"

The girl grinned immodestly. "Oh, I have no sweetheart. Tirick's betrothed himself to me, and I do suppose that I allow him to kiss me on occasion. But sweetheart? Nay, his heart is bitter as a rotten walnut." She giggled, a happy, careless sound that reminded Caffrawen's heart of her buried longing.

"Congratulations. May Illuvatar grant you the happiest and most fruitful of marriages!" she cried, genuine happiness in her voice. She attempted to conjure up an image in her mind of the patient man that could endure Seatra's mercurial moods. Somehow, she could only see a husky bear of a man to contrast with the girl's slim elasticity.

"And may you provide the sunshine that warms the bleakness of his life." Naimi said with heavy irony, resuming the high-stepping and splashing method that rinsed the linens beneath her feet.

"Nay! I simply make him smile, turn his head, forget what he was thinking or doing..." Seatra also resumed her work, with many coquettish turns of the heel and delicate little splashes.

"And in turn, he can make you go on like this for ages. Fair is fair, I guess." Naimi was quicker on the draw than the idea her reticent appearance projected.

"Can you claim your own sweetheart, Naimi?" Caffrawen turned the question on the slight girl, expecting her to blush, or perhaps smile secretly. 

Instead, she pursed her lips and tilted her chin upwards, reminding the Elf of a vexed cat. "No. No I can't, and it's going to stay that way."

Caffrawen stared at her hands, mortified at her gaffe. Glancing at Romera, she asked a question with her eyes. Romera gave the smallest of nods. The silence once again pervaded, and, again, it was Romera that broke the tension.

"Tell us, Caffrawen, are you married - or otherwise betrothed?" she asked, in much the hesitant way she had used the day before. 

Damn it all, why did she have to get so confused? It was a simple answer - _No. _But something made her hesitate in the formation of the syllable, arrested her hands, which had been so busily scraping at the rank armpit area of a soldier's tunic. _A certain soldier? _Irrelevantly, she thought that it was rather a forward question from someone who had known her for only a day. Yet, it was her turn.

Again, Romera broke the silence that Caffrawen's hesitance had again wrought. 

"I would be willing to say from her reaction that she _has_ noticed someone, but has not revealed this love and longing to the Elf in question. Or to herself, even." Romera grinned at the other girls in a conspiratorial manner. With a surge of joy, Caffrawen realized that she had been welcomed into their teasing banter. She was now both hunter and fair game.

"Who knows? Apparently, I myself do not even know." Caffrawen remarked offhandedly. "And I mark that someone else hasn't answered." she insinuated, turning an innocent glance to Romera.

Where there should have been a tranquil face, lip curled in private amusement, only a raven-colored head hung, its owner focusing rather intently on the trousers she sanded. Seatra had suddenly and inexplicably become silent, not daring to meet anyone's eyes, except for the equally affected Naimi.

Caffrawen had had enough of being awkward. She covered Romera's hands with her own. 

"I am truly sorry, Romera. I did not know that he had...passed beyond the realms of Arda.*" she said softly, eyes full of regret at having caused the woman pain.

A small sigh escaped Romera, and her hands halted their frantic motion. "He is not dead. He does not exist." she said, in a defeated tone.

Now Caffrawen was puzzled. "Er...does not exist?"

Romera kept her eyes on the glinting specks of mica in rock that she sat upon. "I am...not a woman to enter King Elendil's camp with...marriage on her mind." She twisted the trouser-leg in her hands for a moment before releasing it from the anguish of her torment.

The Elf, however, was aware of none of this. Then, remembering her conclusions of the previous day, she heard the pieces click in her mind.

"Oh! I am so sorry, Romera. I did not know you were the daughter of a nobleman. Did he pick out a husband for you?" But upon the earnest apology, the anguish of Romera's fair features turned to confusion. 

"I am sorry, Romera. I figured out that you were a Lady of some high standing yesterday, and I did not remember it until now." Some wry part her mind noted that this was the third time within two minutes that she had apologized.

"A Lady?" the woman squeaked out, finally looking at Caffrawen with astonishment plain in her eyes.

"Well...the perfume, the sash...they made you stand out. I just assumed..." Caffrawen broke off, beyond mortification. All she seemed to do today was make a sharding fool of herself!

"It is...you see...what I can't..." The normally tranquil Romera was twisting in indecisiveness, and, from what Caffrawen could tell, shame.

She moved to touch Romera's back with a gentle hand. "Whatever it is, you need not tell me. I can understand...after all, we've not known each other more than a day..."

"No!" Romera exclaimed, inexplicably vehement about whatever was going on. "Better...better that you hear it from my lips..." she trailed off, despair in her eyes.

Caffrawen momentarily wondered if she was estranged from her husband. Celebrimbor had once remarked to her that human marriages could come apart under various forms of stress. What could cause such a fracture confounded the _bess_, but she accepted that humans were different, and perhaps also subject to different pulls of the heart.

"I...I am...I am a camp-follower." As Romera struggled out the words, her thin shoulders sagged, as if relieved of a great burden, or as if facing shame.

"A what?" Caffrawen said, embarrassed by her confusion, and at the pain this was causing the woman to confess. Beside their rock, neither Naimi or Seatra had resumed rinsing the clothing, their ears fixed with a terrible intensity on the conversation above them.

"A camp-follower." Obviously, Romera thought that Caffrawen had not heard her.

"A camp-follower...what is that?" she queried softly. At that, she was treated to looks of shock from the girls around her, and felt more awkward than ever.

"A camp-follower is another name for a...tart." Romera said, studying the Elf's face closely.

"A tart?" 

As one, all the girls knit their brows and looked at each other in bemusement. Caffrawen was strongly reminded of the days in which her early attempts at jewelcrafting and smithing had gone awry, and she had had to present the laughable products to Celebrimbor's scrutiny.

"A...good-time girl?" At Caffrawen's blank stare, she saw Romera and Naimi's faces flush a deep crimson.

Seatra was less affected. 

"Do you have no she-El...sorry...no _bess_ that are employed in...less than desirable straits?" she asked softly.

"The worst employment I can think of is the cleansing of the outhouses, the spreading of the lime over the outhouse pits. But no specific _bess_ is appointed this duty. What does a...a camp-follower do?"

Romera seemed to have found the deep well of dignity that resided in her backbone, and her posture and bearing had once again settled into the calm mask that she often wore. "A camp-follower sells her body to men in the camp. _I_ sell my body to men in the camp."

__

Her body? "Do you mean, you sell your hair? Or do you do chores for the men in the camp?"

"No...I..." Romera looked despondently at the ignorant Elf, and decided to take a more basic approach.

"Caffrawen, do you know how new life is created?" she asked, slowly, as if to a simpleton.

The _bess_ felt a bit insulted. "I _have_ lived in Middle-Earth for some three-thousand years. Give me some credit."

Naimi and Seatra were taken a bit aback by her declaration of age. "And you know about the physical union between a man and a woman to achieve that creation?" Romera pressed on, unrelenting. 

Now Caffrawen was the one to blush. "Yes."

"Well," Romera continued, perversely eager for this being to know the extent of her shame, "I allow men to...unite...with me for a cost."

Instead of the revulsion they had expected from her, there was, once again, the confusion that was fast reigning over the day.

"I don't understand how that is possible. Does not the act seal a bond between two souls? Does it not wed them for all eternity?"

"Perhaps it does for Elves. For humans, it is a different matter." She paused meaningfully, then continued on in a rush. "I do not do it for base pleasure, of that I can assure you. I need the extra earnings, need them most terribly, and this is the only way to do it." She cast her eyes down, drawing away from Caffrawen as if frightened. "I am sorry for not telling you earlier, my lady. I shall go." And up she would have got, and down the path she would have fled, if not for Caffrawen's quick restraining arm.

"So they...they look down upon you for doing this?"

"Yes."

"Even though it is done for the best of reasons?"

"To support my boy. My little Romeron...yes."

"And some of the other men and women revile you for what you are, refuse to see the good inside?"

"Ye-es." The syllable was broken by a sob, quickly muffled as the _bess_ pulled the camp-follower in her arms for a quick embrace.

"I can most sincerely sympathize, Romera. I know something akin to that shame." Naimi and Seatra came behind, offering their friend support. The quiet murmurings of all four were lost in the loud waters of the Bruinen, as early summer staked its claim in the valley of Imladris, preparing the way for the inevitable march of autumn, and of the Armies of Men and Elves.

***

__

* When Elves die, they depart to the Halls of Waiting, presided over by Mandos, one of the Valar. There, they wait to be reborn into new bodies.

* Earendil is the Mariner who travels through the sky nightly with a Silmaril on his brow, from which the radiance of the light comes. As an Elf, Caffrawen could take joy in the stars, but as a Feanorian, she knew the bloodshed her family had caused to recapture the Silmarils. To see the star of Earendil would cause both joy and guilt for her.

* Elbereth was of the Valar, lady of the stars, highly regarded and revered by all Elves. To her they look for guidance and comfort. 

* A fea is the immortal soul of an Elf.

Canon Deviations

-The Last Alliance spent 2-3 years in Imladris. I have changed this to a duration of a few months.

- Once again, I feel compelled to note that, at this point in time, Elrond's character had not been developed to the kind, patient, eternally wise Peredhil we see in the Third Age. Nor did he have a Feanorian to needle him, so his personality may be a little less...mannerly than he became after marriage and fatherhood.

- Did Elendil have camp-followers in his army? It is not recorded that he did, but I'm playing on the proclivities of Men. Since Elves bind themselves eternally to the one they join with, prostitution would be unknown among the Eldar.

No Elves or Men were harmed in the writing of this chapter. The author recommends that, if you should have an experience with the stars such as Caffrawen did, you go straight to a local psychiatrist or physician for a CAT scan.


	7. Warning

Oy. Three long months of Calculus, pointless essays, and belly-dancing. You probably don't want to hear more, so I'll sum it up by apologizing and hitting myself over the head in penance. To make up for it, this chapter is a LOT longer than I intended it to be. There will be a small summary at the end, to explain in brief what has occurred, just in case. 

Thank you for reading!

__

Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's works, but they seem to own me.

Chapter Six: _Warning_

Ost-in-Edhil, 1200 of the Second Age

" 'Alas for the weakness of the great! For a mighty King is Gil-galad, and wise in all lore is Master Elrond, and yet they will not aid me in my labours. Can it be that they do not desire to see other lands become as blissful as their own? But wherefore should Middle-earth remain for ever desolate and dark, whereas the Elves could make it as fair as Eressea, nay even as Valinor? And since you have not returned thither as you might, I perceive that you love this Middle-earth, as do I. Is it not then our task to labour together for its enrichment, and for the raising of all Elven-kindreds that wander here untaught to the height of that power and knowledge which those have who are beyond the Sea?' " Lord Annatar in his defense, from Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age _in_ The Silmarillion.

__

"Yet this is our law. I am not the master of the law, and cannot set it aside. I have done much in letting you set foot over the Celebrant." Haldir, from Lothlorien _in_ The Fellowship of the Ring.

Background Music: "Here Girl" from Xena: Warrior Princess Volume 6, CD 2, Track 29

Crack!

Crack-tlack!

Crack-tlack-tlack-tat!

"Caffra! If you haven't noted this before, I'm not an orc!"

"I hadn't." She grinned, a teasing grin that lit up her face, already flushed with the evening's exertions. Elimani glared at her, his own features rosy from several hours practice.

"This is practice, not a duel to the death. You nearly took my head off." He propped his quarterstaff against the ground, leaning against it. Caffrawen leant her own form against the ivory walls of Ost-in-Edhil, glad for the respite, as it gave her another chance to tease him. Late afternoon sun poured in, filling the ivory walls of the city with blinding brilliance, rather than the glowing luminescence they displayed in shadow. 

"I can't quite see why you'd miss it. Your head's not been doing you much good lately."

"More good than your own. You got taken in by my charms last week - yes, you did," he confirmed, amusement lighting his features as she attempted to interrupt. "You wouldn't have entered the shed if I didn't play on your one weakness - that pitiful, pathetic expression I pulled."

The two smiths had taken up the habit of practicing quarterstaff combat in the lesser-crowded alleyways of Ost-in-Edhil. Oft could the rhythm of clacking wooden staffs be heard, interspersed with choice cursing, and a few pained complaints as quarterstaffs impacted with flesh. Already Caffrawen had a darkening bruise on her calf, and Elimani sported two handsome bruises on his stomach and left shoulder.

Now that she was a member of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, she was given to understand that the brotherhood had more leisure time than regular Smiths. They were, of course, expected to use this time to confer with one another and share ideas. Elimani had given out some unbelievable story about using this time to consult with Caffrawen about the most vulnerable spots in armor, and how they might reinforce those areas.

For sake of research, they were keeping a count of their oft-hit bodily areas. To her continual delight, Caffrawen's sketch of an elven figure was much cleaner than Elimani's, shaded in with a hunk of graphite to simulate bruising.

Dropping back into a defensive posture, she grinned as Elimani began a furious assault on her left side. Their feet shifted across slightly greasy cobblestones, sliding with unconscious grace as Elimani attempted to gain ground and back her into a wall, severely lessening her options. He struck at her left shoulder, but Caffrawen, watching his eyes, glimpsed his intent. A moment later, she parried his half-hearted attempt at her shoulder, and moved to defend her vulnerable thigh, at which his eyes had been focused.

Blocking him from a frustrated attack on her right hip deftly, she chuckled in triumph as she slipped one end of her staff past his defenses and around to jab him firmly behind the knees. He staggered a moment, staff momentarily paused, and giving her the opening she needed to swing the other end of her staff around in a tight arc to hammer against his wrist. He cursed an oath that widened her eyes, and backed away in the universal gesture for a quick breather.

"Somehow I doubt that your pitiful expression is going to help you at all today." Her triumphant expression glowed over him as she rested her staff at an angle before her. He glared at her, rumpled grey tunic and long nose making him look like a vexed eagle.

"You'd think so, but no. It's going to help me greatly by the end of today." All at once, the annoyance faded from his eyes, replaced by a softness the likes of which expression she'd not yet seen upon his face. 

Suspecting a prank but unnerved by his face, Caffrawen arched an eyebrow. "Who are you conning to get out of duties tomorrow?"

Elimani grinned, the flash of his white teeth against his darkly tanned complexion nearly as blinding as the walls of Ost-in-Edhil illuminated by sunlight. "It's not tomorrow I'm thinking of, it's tonight."

Shifting back to sit in the shade created by a building, he motioned for her to sit beside him. She did, warily, dread creeping in her stomach for some odd reason.

"Tonight?" she queried, busying herself with resting her quarterstaff comfortably across her lap as they leant back against the building. He nodded, tipping his head back as he arched his neck, flexing muscle there that Caffrawen suddenly found herself appreciating.

"Tonight," he confirmed, before switching tack. "What is your opinion of Findineth?"

Now she truly was confused. "Sister of Finervenn? Nice enough, I suppose, but she shares her brother's habits of dress." It was a continual state of wonderment for the entire Smithing population how the peacockish Smith was able to keep such fine clothing free from the char and stain that afflicted the aprons of other Smiths. But, as were so many eccentricities of other Smiths overlooked or accepted, so was this.

"Aye, and they look well on her." 

Caffrawen raised an eyebrow. "And what, exactly, does that have to do with your pathetically charming glances?"

He pursed his lips a moment, and then once again donned that pathetically innocent look. With all due seriousness, he crooned, "Would you kiss a face like this?"

"_Elimani!_"

"What? A little stroll in the starlight, some sweetbread and wine, who's to say she wouldn't grant me a kiss?" He grinned fatuously, not really waiting for her answer.

Caffrawen, on the other hand, was assaulted by a maelstrom of emotion, most of which had a volatile, dangerous feel to it. Peripherally, she was aware that her hands had clenched on the quarterstaff, and that her jaw was tight enough to crack. To Elimani's eyes, she appeared to be deep in contemplation. In reality, she was struggling for focus.

Eventually, it occurred to her that she should not be reacting the way that she was to this news. After all, what was it to her if Elimani and Findineth were courting? She groped for an answer. 

Of course! She was afraid of losing his friendship, as his attention would be diverted to the object of his affections. _After all, that's the answer, isn't it?_

"Hmph. You'd better get washed up, then." With one fluid movement, she was on her feet and striding in the direction of home, not looking back at Elimani. 

"Caffra?" The tentative query made the _bess_ in question halt in her tracks, spinning around to look at her friend. Elimani was on his feet as well, his dramatized expression replaced by one of genuine confusion and concern.

"Aye?"

"Aren't you going to wish me good luck?" The knot of anger in her stomach seemed to have worked its way up into her throat, and Caffrawen struggled not to let it affect the words she needed to say. 

"Good luck, Elimani." She turned back around, and with a purposeful step, strode homeward, silently seething about her missed opportunity to give him a black eye to go with his lovely black hair that would be on display tonight. Passers-by gave her a wide berth as she stomped home, irritated once again by the fact that Elimani could make her react so.

Had she looked back, she might have noted that Elimani's expression of concern did not fade at her reassuring platitude. 

***

The moment she arrived home, she busied her mind with small, unimportant matters. The growing pile of laundry that needed washing - severely. Rekindling the fire in the grate with a bit of kindling, and helping it grow. Hauling a few buckets of water from the public well. Heating a pot of water for her quick wash-down. Combing the sweat from her hair and re-braiding it into a tight plait that fell down her back, stopping at her waist. Changing into a light muslin skirt and blouse. Setting down aromatic herbs inside their private outhouse to sweeten the air (Due to Celebrimbor and the Dwarves' ingenious architecture, an underwater stream had been diverted to create a channel in which waste was flushed away and dredged from a nearby reservoir).* Mashing the chickpeas she'd so painstakingly soaked in jars since the harvests had come in from southwestern Eregion. Mixing a garlic clove and olive oil imported from Gondor into the bean paste to give it flavor and body. Setting the mixture to settle in the dark cool room that served as their winter storage*. 

In the end, the monotonous labor served to clarify the motivation that spurred her aggravation with Elimani, allowed her to sort it out. Fifty years of isolation had affected her, made her a bit clingy to others at times, even though Caffrawen had lived among other Elves for the better part of four centuries. She was the only _bess_ that Elimani was consistently playful with; she supposed that it was base jealousy on her part for want of his attention. 

It was a thought that terrified her. For jealousy had Feanor quarreled bitterly with and become separated from his half-brother Fingolfin, forever separating the two houses in a rivalry. For lack of restraint, he had struck at Fingolfin, the first act of one Elf doing violence to another Elf. It also turned out to be a precursor to the terrible Kinslayings that Feanor and his sons would later commit. The past two generations of the House of Feanor had been disasters, driving Celebrimbor on a breakneck quest to make reparations for his bloodline's misdeeds. As his craftswoman and dependant, as well as a daughter of the House of Feanor, Caffrawen would follow his lead.

Even if following his lead meant that she would have to forgo the satisfaction of seeing Elimani's eye thoroughly blacked.

She sighed at this realization, and turned to sweep the floor and forget the troubling thoughts she had entertained.

Just as Caffrawen was contemplating making her cousin take off his shoes before he entered the house, observing the shaded path of ashes and dirt that led to Celebrimbor's room, a loud rapping announced the arrival of a stranger at their door.

Funny...she hadn't been expecting Giliath anytime soon. They had agreed to swap a meal's worth of Caffrawen's chickpea concoction for Giliath's best-roasted sweet potatoes to test Celebrimbor's ability to discern one taste from another. Celebrimbor always complimented Caffrawen on her cooking, though after four hundred years she began to wonder if his thanks were merely for the opportunity to eat something warm in the comfort of his own home. Now they would see if he actually knew what he was eating. Giliath had similar suspicions about her brother, who was also incidentally a member of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. Though a red-hot poker of guilt burned the back of her head for keeping the organization a secret from Giliath, she reckoned it to be for the best, for all involved.

Opening the door and letting in the crisp evening air of autumn, she was greeted by Failar the guardsman, who looked very ill at ease, shifting from one foot to another, his long-ranging eyes darting to and fro behind her, looking for something or someone.

"Good evening, Lady Caffrawen. Is the Lord Celebrimbor at home?"

"Good evening, Lord Failar. No, I believe he is in the Smith's Quarter. Perhaps you should check in his workshop?" Caffrawen responded equably to the polite inquiry.

"I've already checked every building in the Smith's Quarter, and he's not there. Everyone said he must have gone home early," Failar continued, his agitation leading him to drop back into the informal, slightly slurred southern drawl that was the telling characteristic of the Elves of Ost-in-Edhil, which Caffrawen had adopted.

The pieces clicked together in her mind. If the Master Artificer could not be located by any key member of the Smithing Quarter, it was because he did not want to be found.

In the week in which she had spent as a fully-fledged member of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, she had been introduced to the 'scrap metal' shed. What was inside was anything but scrap.

The more deadly fruits of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain's labours, machines that dealt out death with a frightening ferocity, the machines of war were kept in a locked storehouse on the fringes of the Smith's Quarter. She had already had to sit duty at the scrap heap, carrying out the pretense of sorting the day's accumulated bits and pieces of metal and then melting them down, but her covert duty was to keep a watch on the building's one entrance. The wooden walls, Celebrimbor had explained, were merely a faux covering for a reinforced plate metal box that contained the most sensitive and valuable of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain's creations. No one, he had reassured her, could get in without making an incredible amount of noise. Which, again, was the reason for situating the building away from where the normal noisy din of the Smith's Quarter would have ordinarily masked such a clamor. 

If a member of the brotherhood wished to visit the shed, they waited for an hour of the day in which few would be about, then brought a token piece of scrap metal to the storehouse. After first clasping the bicep of the storehouse's guardian, and having the gesture returned (for such was the greeting between members of the brotherhood), the door would be opened by use of a jointed key, of which there was only one duplicate. The first belonged to Celebrimbor, and it was from him that each brother would obtain permission and use of the key, handing it off to the guard so that the door could be locked afterward. The second existed, but Celebrimbor would not say whom he had entrusted the key to.

Anyone who knew of such a visit would disavow all knowledge of the Smith's whereabouts when questioned. 

"All I know is that he isn't here. You could leave the message with me, and I'll see that it gets to him. That one doesn't miss a single meal, now that he can get them home-cooked!" She jested lightly, attempting to ease his mood and get him to stop wondering about Celebrimbor.

To her relief, he started to laugh. "Aye. Right then, I'll leave the message with you. We just figured that someone here ought to know about it, as Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel have gone for a ride with young Lady Celebrian. Since they can't get their messages, Celebrimbor would probably be the next this city'd look to for guidance."

Caffrawen absorbed this statement in its entirety, taking in the truth of Failar's words about Celebrimbor's importance, and the fact that whomever had sent the message knew of the chain of command in Ost-in-Edhil. Then her mind grasped the larger importance of his words.

"Letters were sent to the Lord and Lady as well?"

"Aye, that they were." He pulled a message scroll from the safety of his jerkin, where the parchment was wrapped in waterproofed leather and carried a seal that Caffrawen could not immediately identify, as it was covered by Failar's thumb. "They'll just have to wait unopened till the Lord and Lady return. But I can now send the messenger back, since at least one of his messages will get to its recipient. Poor fellow came all the way from Lindon."

"_Lindon?_" Her reply came in a breathless inquiry.

"Aye." He handed her the message scroll. "A good evening to you, Caffrawen." 

"And to you," she replied mechanically, as he turned smartly and left. 

Frowning in thought, she closed the door and examined the message scroll. Impressed into the leather was the seal of the High King Gil-galad.

__

Gil-galad.

__

What in the name of the Two Trees did the High King want with Celebrimbor?

It was true that her cousin was important, at least to the city of Ost-in-Edhil. In terms of bloodlines, as spent and as shamed as the Feanorian line was, it had once held the crown of the Noldor, before her Uncle Maedhros had handed the crown to Fingolfin. Celebrimbor was known throughout the lands as the worthiest successor to the skill of Feanor, and once word spread about the Elessar, he would be even more important. In all of her four hundred years spent in Ost-in-Edhil, she had seen many messages come from Lindon, presumably from the High King, but none of them were for the Master Archival.

Perhaps the missive was meant to question Celebrimbor about the Elessar...but how could news of the Elessar gotten to Lindon and back so quickly? What then could be so important that the High King would not simply ask through Lord Celeborn for information?

Caffrawen shifted, fingering the message scroll. After all, it was an urgent message...

Thunder rolled, far away from the mountains. Idly, she thought it strange that there should be a thunderstorm this far into autumn. It did not improve her sense of foreboding. 

She could just run it down to the scrap shed and hand it to him there...but why not read it? If there was something terrible afoot, the more people that knew about it, the better, was that not correct?

So with the scruples that seemed never to want to stay permanently in a Feanorian's mind, she untied the leather, broke the seal, and began to read. 

'To the Master Archival of Ost-in-Edhil, Celebrimbor, son of Curufin...'

***

__

Background Music: First half of "The Treason of Isengard" from The Fellowship of the Ring, Track 4

By some miracle of restraint Caffrawen managed not to drop the missive to the recently swept floor.

Lightning bolts of fear and alarm raced down her spine. Her senses heightened by her state, Caffrawen could feel the very air of the house pressing in on her, and felt suddenly extremely isolated and vulnerable among all the Elves and within stone walls.

She had to find Celebrimbor. _Now._

Tucking the missive inside her skirt pocket, she tore out of the door, racing along the cobbled streets of Ost-in-Edhil. She dodged passing Elves and other obstacles with grace and a single purpose in mind. Some might have called out to her in worry, others in irritation. She didn't notice. Darvi the Dwarf could have been dancing in the street in un-masculine pink, and she wouldn't have given him a moment's thought. 

She did realize, however, that she needed a piece of scrap metal. Cursing the most fiendish oath she'd ever heard muttered by another Smith, she sprinted up the stairs and into the Hall that housed her workshop. She grabbed the first metal item in sight, turned, and continued her mad dash.

Some inner sense of caution prompted her to glance about the street, making certain that few were in sight. Caffrawen slowed her steps to a brisk pace, all her attention focused on the guard of the scrap shed, who happened to be Maltast, wrapped in a brown cloak, tending the fire as a chill wind picked up, spurred by the oncoming storm. He waved, seeing her approach. 

"Maltast! I don't have the key, but I need to speak with Celebrimbor urgently!" She spoke the words in a rush, reaching forward to clasp his bicep, and tossing the unknown hunk of metal onto the pile of metal scraps, where it landed with a harsh _clang_.

Maltast clasped her bicep briefly, and then glanced at the metal scraps. "I had no idea you were so unattached to your cooling tongs, Caffrawen." He picked up her unfortunate tool from the scrap pile.

"Bother the tongs!" she spat. Pulling the missive from her pocket, she waggled the seal of the High King Gil-galad under Maltast's nose. 

"Urgent word from the High King - Celebrimbor needs to see this! Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel are off on a ride, and someone needs to be informed about this who can do something!"

"How are you so certain that it's urgent?" The _benn_ was impossible!

"Because I read it! The sooner our Master Artificer knows, the better."

Moving far too slowly for Caffrawen's frame of mind, the Smith reached for the key within his cloak, muttering as he did so. "You've been a member of the Brotherhood for only a week, and yet you barge in as if you had all the authority -"

"-of the High King, and I've got his seal to prove it," she finished for him, watching as he wriggled the jointed key into place. 

"Hmph. Well, perhaps you can convince him to take that foreign visitor of his out of there. Should really only be viewed by the members of the Brotherhood, and you've been confirmed, at the very least."

Caffrawen had stopped listening after he had spoken the words 'foreign visitor'. She gaped at Maltast in shock. "Lord Annatar?" she asked in a breathy whisper. 

"The one and only," he confirmed.

Caffrawen felt an icy chill run down her veins where the blood should have flown.

She pushed past Maltast as he pried the doors open, and into the small antechamber. A single torch had been lit, flickering uneasily in its wall bracket. Using the quietest steps she had ever had chance or purpose to use, she lifted the overhanging cloth that was used in lieu of a door.

As her eyes adjusted to the filtered light of the chambers, she became aware of two distinct voices, carrying on a low-toned discussion, from which she could distinguish that they were situated at the far right side of the shed. Stepping lightly over a bundle of barbed arrows, bypassing the jars of flammable oil with wicks set inside them, she moved towards the voices. Light already dimmed by the oncoming thunderstorm and thrust through the reinforced vents in sharp slats, cast an eerie blue glow on the metal. The distant rumbling of thunder and the fretful snapping of a single torch did nothing to ease her frantic state of mind.

She drew nearer to the voices, discerning a tall, hooded figure standing next to a shorter figure that was gesturing animatedly at a beast-like contraption of wooden beams and metal. The shorter figure - Celebrimbor - had pulled back the hood of his own cloak to allow his auburn locks to spill out, creating a patch of deep color in the room of muted tones. Caffrawen supposed that her own was the same. She came close enough to pick up their conversation. Normally she would have called out by now, but some inner prompting kept her silent.

"...and so once the tension from this cord is released, the counterweight falls forward at an incredible rate, allowing the other end to fling its contents forth. We've measured the traveling distance so far at about one hundred and fifty yards, with an elevation of about seventy-five feet at normal strike point. Good bit of force behind it, too, enough to rattle the teeth in your head." Celebrimbor was speaking rapidly, as excited as she'd ever seen him

"Or smash the battlements of a fortress? A truly marvelous invention, Friend Celebrimbor. What do you call this wonder, again?" The voice dripped from within the black cloak, sliding into Caffrawen's ears in a most disconcerting manner.

"A catapult, Lord Annatar. Would you care for a demonstration?" She winced as she watched her proud cousin act the eager puppy. Or was he simply being courteous?

"Perhaps later. There seems to be nothing worth destroying here, as of yet!" An oily chuckle issued from within Annatar's cloak, and Celebrimbor was quick to echo it.

Caffrawen had had enough.

"Lord Celebrimbor? Lord Annatar?" 

They turned to her as she stepped into a patch of light, and she curtsied in a detached manner. 

"Ah, Caffra! Bringing me home in time for supper, no doubt!" Celebrimbor's wide grin of joviality was not lost on her, and for a moment, she allowed it to warm her heart. A slight movement from Annatar brought her back to the manner at hand.

"Unfortunately, no, my lord. The Lady Galadriel has requested your presence to oversee a problem that has come up with the city's waste pipes. As we speak, the air of Ost-in-Edhil is fouled most grievously, particularly in the Lord and Lady's home." It was a lie, but calculated to get the foreign Lord out of the scrap shed, and Celebrimbor back to his role as leader. She watched with a hint of guilt as his features settled into a business-like expression, but was halted momentarily.

"A moment, Friend Celebrimbor. This charming young _bess_ is your wife?" Caffrawen froze as Annatar's gaze became fixed on her. He slowly lowered the hood of his cloak, revealing a hauntingly beautiful face. His face was finely boned with wide eyes, and he had a pale complexion that seemed never to change in the light and heat of the sun, and took on an unattractive waxy look when in such circumstances. Here, in the semi-dark of the scrap shed, it gave him an ethereal semblance of unearthly knowledge. This face was framed by waves of hair so black, it shone blue in some places. His lips were full, sensual, as finely crafted as the rest of his face. His eyes disturbed her, for they were not beady, nor too large, but instead were perfect black pools of nothingness. She wondered if it was so with all servants of the Valar.

"My wife? Of course not, Annatar! This is my cousin, Caffrawen." Celebrimbor presented her to Annatar with an avuncular affection that irritated her to no end.

"Lady...Caffrawen," Annatar spoke in silken tones that made her flesh crawl. "Tell me, my lady, from whose line connected to Celebrimbor do you descend?"

"I descend from one of his father's brothers." She wasn't about to give him more information than she absolutely had to. None of his business, anyway. 

"Ah, so you descend from the House of Feanor. A nobly intended line. Tell me, which brother was your father?"

Caffrawen decided that she definitely did not like this turn of questioning. She responded as curtly as she could, "I am the daughter of Amras."

"Amras! Youngest of the brothers. I had heard of his demise at the Havens of Sirion. And you are a Smith here?"

"Forgive me, Lord Annatar, but the problems I mentioned are growing more dire. Perhaps I could answer your questions later." It took every shred of diplomacy and restraint to keep Caffrawen from lashing out at Annatar's unwelcome probing. There was no mistaking that he was handsome, and quite charming in his own way. Yet he repelled her in the same way a skunk repels a wolf.

"Indeed! So, if you'll follow me, Lord Annatar," Celebrimbor stepped in, gesturing for the both of them to follow him out of the scrap shed.

Caffrawen followed sullenly, aware of Annatar's silent presence as he moved behind her. Once they had cleared the scrap shed, Celebrimbor clasped Annatar's hand and bid him good-day. Caffrawen's eyes lingered on the tall Lord as he left. He did not walk, rather, he glided...she was brought back to the present by Celebrimbor's hand on her shoulder.

"How badly is the pipeline damaged? Does Agladir have any idea of what has caused the failure in function?" His red eyebrows were knit in concentration.

"What? Oh, no," Caffrawen murmured, having forgotten her deception. "There is no damage in the pipeline." Beside her, the Master Artificer was halted in his path to Galadriel's abode, confusion written on his face.

"Let us find somewhere out of the open before the storm breaks." In the corner of her eye, she could still see Lord Annatar's shape lingering in the distance. After all, this was a sensitive matter, not to be discussed out in the open. She suited action to words and pulled at the cuff of his sleeve, discreetly guiding him home, her eyes begging him not to ask questions. Fortunately, the streets had been cleared with the prospect of the oncoming storm, and she was able to pull him home in a relatively short amount of time.

"Now what is it, Caffrawen?" Celebrimbor said with a tinge of irritation. He shut the door behind them and pulled off his cloak, draping it on a hook. "I was conducting very important business with Annatar..."

"_Lord_ Annatar, cousin. And I highly doubt your business was more important than this." With these words she pulled Gil-galad's missive from her pocket with a flourish, handing it over to him. "This came for you less than an hour ago. Similar missives were sent to the Lord and Lady, who are out on a ride." 

She turned then, letting him read the urgent words as she busied herself pouring some badly needed wine into glasses. Carrying the glasses over to the table, she sipped at one glass and stared into its ruby depths blankly until she heard Celebrimbor. He walked with wooden steps, his brow furrowed, and his eyes sharp and seeking. Caffrawen pushed the other glass of wine towards him, and he nodded gratefully, taking large sips and staring into the small fire in the grate.

"You really think that it is Lord Annatar that they refer to?"

"Since they used his name, and I know of no others to go by the audacious name of 'Lord of Gifts', I would assume as much," she replied tartly, a bit irritated at his lack of action and direction. Celebrimbor either did not hear or chose to ignore the sarcasm in her voice, and instead looked back over Gil-galad's graceful script. 

"I cannot believe it," he murmured, perusing the text as if expecting to see a retraction of the warning suddenly appear. 

"As evidenced by your trust in him," Caffrawen spat, bitter that the trust he had so readily given to Annatar had taken her over four hundred years for her to earn.

He looked up at her sharply. "What do you mean?" Inwardly, Caffrawen flinched at the tone of command, and was reminded of his support in her recent ascension to honors, and of the fact that she was the most junior of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, speaking to the head of her order.

"He's been here for less than a week, doesn't say much about where he came from, doesn't present any evidence that he was sent by the Valar, _and you let him into the scrap shed_?"

"Caffrawen, haven't you seen the marvels he's helped us create? In only a few days, we have eight new methods for heating metals, three new alloys, and suggestions for two new farming implements!" He paused for breath in his defense of himself and of Annatar. "He's a Smith! He creates great wonders, just as we do!"

Caffrawen stared at him blankly. _Could he truly be this blind?_ "The same could have been said of our Grandfather Feanor. Look how we pay for that, even now! It is true that I dislike Lindon, and if it were on other matters, I might be inclined to disagree with King Gil-galad and his Herald...what's his name?"

"Elrond," her cousin said shortly, anger beginning to course across his features.

"Elrond," she repeated. "Lindon hates us for our family, but its leaders at least know that other lives are at stake. Suppose the knowledge of what is in the scrap shed leaked out of the building that is supposed to contain it? What if it falls into enemy hands?"

Celebrimbor gaped at her. "Surely...you cannot suggest..._by the Valar, no_!"

"Anything and everything is possible."

"The Lady Galadriel...she would have sensed some ill intent!"

"Who knows? She hasn't been about the city much this week, and the two times Annatar was slated to meet the Lord and Lady, he's come up with an excuse not to."

"He was helping me in the forges!" Uncertainty flickered across Celebrimbor's features, and he looked wildly about the room, seeking reassurance.

"Tell me, cousin, who would pass up a summons from the Lady? Once? Possibly, but highly unlikely, if his mission from the Valar is as important as he implies. But twice?" She held his gaze unblinkingly. Behind her, the grated fire snapped broodingly, causing them both to jump.

He rose from his seat unsteadily, but when he gained his feet, there was all the confidence and direction of a King about him. He glanced out a window, reflectively taking in the howling gusts of rain and wind, the almost forgotten sounds of thunder crashing. 

"I will send someone to arrange a meeting between myself, the Lord and Lady, and Lord Annatar. Certainly, any misunderstandings will be cleared up at that time." He nodded sharply to himself, pleased with his solution. 

Caffrawen privately wondered if there was any other course of action to be taken, but she wordlessly brought out the dinner that she had prepared, quite forgetting that she was supposed to swap with Giliath. They ate in silence, their thoughts too loud to have ever heard the other's conversation. With the amount of work that Caffrawen had put into the chickpea spread, as she partook of it, it stuck in her throat on numerous occasions, and Caffrawen knew that she had not been stingy with the olive oil. 

***

__

Background Music: "Welcome the Avatar" Xena: Warrior Princess, Volume 4, Track 21

The usual cool freshness of the air following a storm usually invigorated the Elves, but with the accompanying chill of autumn, it was simply windy and cold and wet out, and no one wanted to be about out of doors. Elves were of a stronger constitution than Men, but that did not necessarily mean that they went out looking for discomfort. The smell of woodsmoke was heavy in the air, as most families had found their first excuse to light a roaring fire since the last chilled days of early spring. 

To Caffrawen and Celebrimbor, all the chill and wetness simply served as tidings of ill fortune to be had. 

Not so ill, Caffrawen thought as she hustled along beside her cousin, _if it is true and we can stop it here!_

They ran gracefully over slippery cobblestones before nearly colliding with Failar, who was running in their direction. Skidding to a halt, he managed an awkward bow, before reciting the message entrusted to him. 

"My Lord Celebrimbor, Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel request your presence in their halls immediately. They only arrived back in the city as the storm broke. The Lord and Lady apologize for the lateness of the hour, but it is of a matter that cannot wait." Failar paused for breath and might have said more, but Caffrawen interrupted.

"No doubt of what's on their minds." Celebrimbor nodded, and turned back to Failar.

"Failar, if you would be so good as to run to the lodgings where Lord Annatar is residing? Tell him that the Lord Celebrimbor requests his immediate presence in the halls, and that nothing can be deemed of higher importance than this." Caffrawen looked with approval at his kingly bearing, at his sudden authority, at his apparent confidence. Failar bobbed in a quick bow to them both and took off, long legs propelling him deftly over the wet streets and out of their sight.

With a less hurried air, Celebrimbor ceremonially placed a hand in the small of Caffrawen's back, guiding her through the streets. Caffrawen had the vague sense of being pulled through a tunnel of creamy stone that shone dully through the water and the waning light, so disinterested was she in her surroundings. In hardly any time, they were sprinting up the stairway toward the Lord and Lady's door. 

The surprise of the doors being swung open as they approached was compounded with the surprise of Lord Celeborn waiting for them in the foyer, still dressed in riding clothes of blue. His face was stony, intelligent eyes watching every movement of his two guests like a wary animal. 

As one, Celebrimbor and Caffrawen remembered their manners and each made the appropriate obeisance, Caffrawen sinking in a short curtsy, and Celebrimbor bowing, almost grudgingly. 

Whether Celeborn registered any of this, Caffrawen did not know, as his eyes did not linger on her or Celebrimbor. Nor did he deliver his usual load of pleasantries to the Smithing Quarter spoken with a face like soured milk. He cut through the crust and came to the pie filling.

"Lord Celebrimbor, Lady Caffrawen. I trust you have received the same message that has come to my Lady and I?" 

"We have," Celebrimbor said, answering for the both of them. "We were on our way here when Failar caught up with us. I have sent him to retrieve Lord Annatar back here for some immediate questioning."

Celeborn nodded his approval, and then turned his head as the Lady Galadriel stepped into the room.

__

Stepped, Caffrawen decided, _is to earthly a word for her. She glides._

Indeed, the most prominent Lady of Ost-in-Edhil had glided into the room, wearing only a simple green riding habit, her normally flawless face creased by furrowed brows that relaxed upon seeing the two Feanorians within her home. For Caffrawen, who had never seen the Lady of Light in any hue other than purest white, and never in any state of disquiet, this was the equivalent of seeing a holly bush decide to rid itself of thorns and bear purple berries. She received a slight nudge from her cousin, and sank like a stone in her curtsy.

Galadriel exchanged her anxious face for a placidly welcoming one. "Lord Celebrimbor, Lady Caffrawen. I am certain that you will agree with me when I say that social niceties are unimportant in the face of this very grave news." Her voice was dulcet, urgency deepening the tone. Caffrawen saw her hand unobtrusively move to touch the arm of her husband. Instantly, Celeborn's face relaxed into a more tranquil expression.

"If Lord Annatar arrives this third time he is bidden, then we will get to the heart of this matter. If he is less than completely sincere in his replies, we will consider upon what course of action would be the wisest for the safety of all. Should he be as benevolent as his name implies, then we must guard our borders with heightened vigilance." She halted her speech, apparently deeply shaken by this possibility. "Not since the days in which Gondolin fell have we considered such a deed being perpetrated within the borders of our own lands. Yet it is easier to chase the dragon from the parapets than it is to pluck the serpent from one's breast."

Silence hung like a shroud over the small gathering. The Lady turned her glittering eyes upon Celebrimbor's own, holding his gaze with the same grip that Caffrawen might apply to her quarterstaff. "Lord Celebrimbor, do you truly believe that Lord Annatar comes with the purest intentions, that he is a messenger of the Valar himself? We trust your counsel implicitly, and any insight you might have could prove very valuable to our questioning."

Celebrimbor pulled in a large intake of air, composing his mind and heart, which, given the riveting stare of Galadriel must not have been a light task. "He has presented me with no proof that he is of the Valar, save his simply _astounding_ knowledge of Smithing, and of the creation of unheard-of machines and tools. He has told me that the gift he brings to Ost-in-Edhil is the gift of knowledge, knowledge that can be used to preserve and protect these realms we claim as our own. Annatar called such a gift a _dual-gift_, in that we had the option of exercising the gift of free will upon his gift of knowledge, to achieve whatever aim we sought. Such was his faith in our aims that I could not help but trust him, until tidings came from Lindon. Now that these questions have been raised by the esteemed High King Gil-galad, and by his Herald, Lord Elrond, I begin to wonder if that conclusion was correct. He can be slightly arrogant, perhaps, in the face of our more primitive tools, and he has a tendency to ask too much about that which should be left alone..." Celebrimbor trailed off, brow furrowed. 

Celeborn seemed to take umbrage from this. "Well, now it shall be we who ask the questions! My Lady, shall we continue this from within the formal hall?" Galadriel nodded, thoughtfully. 

"Our guest must come away with the impression of power, and that we are the ones wielding it." She turned her electrifying gaze then to Caffrawen. "My Lady Caffrawen, surely you would be more comfortable in the library? I will send for some tea to be brought to you, and you are free to look through any of the tomes there."

Caffrawen inclined her head, half in respect, half to break the scalding contact of Galadriel's eyes. "I would indeed, my Lady." A suggestion from the Lady was in truth a subtle order.

"We will send for you to be brought back to your cousin when our Council has ended. Shall we, then?" Celeborn took the arm of his lady and escorted her into the formal hall, Celebrimbor trailing in their wake.

Although she knew that she was not of enough status or consequence to be allowed to listen in on the council, Caffrawen stood there, resent coursing through her in waves. Compounded with her earlier anxiety, the rush of unwanted emotion was building within her like an ocean wave, racing towards the point at which the strength of it could be dashed to bits and the emotion purged from her too-emotive body. 

"It seems we are in similar straits, aren't we?" Caffrawen looked up, hearing the wry remark come from a dark chamber to the side of the foyer. A maid slipped out of the shadows, tilting her head with a confident air.

Celebrian might not have been as beautiful or as graceful as her mother, but she certainly made up for it by replacing her mother's cool detachment and polished manners with an approachable manner and an easy, beautiful grin. You could not touch Galadriel in all her golden purity. You could hug Celebrian in her silvery radiance and demonstrative nature. 

"What?" Caffrawen had not noticed that she had been twisting her skirt with her hands in frustration.

"Being shut out. Knowing that you're going to have to deal with such matters one of these days, and being unable to do so, either because you're too young, or you're not deemed as having worthy council or enough consequence," she said lightly. 

Caffrawen offered her a confused look in response. 

"Forgive me. I'm Celebrian. And I believe your name is Caffrawen." 

"Yes…" Caffrawen suddenly came to the full realization of the person that was speaking to her. She hastily composed a curtsy that failed as certainly as did her attempt at composure.

"Oh, don't bother with that," Celebrian said, extending a hand to still her genuflection. "Mother and Father insist on formality. You've no idea how tiring it is to be presented as their confidant and trusted daughter in public, when they won't discuss the price of potatoes without a great deal of thought about 'how much this will expose her to the rawness of this world.' Goodness, I've known about enemy movements since I was knee-high to a Dwarf. Apparently my esteemed parents didn't think me capable of understanding the term _opposition_."

If one had to pick among Celebrian's many charms, from the dazzling smile to the bubbly nature of her conversation, the chief one that drew so many close to her was her confidential nature. As the occasion suited, she could be as serious as the grave, or as light-hearted as a tavern song, but no matter whom she spoke to, Celebrian had the ability to make them feel as if they were the only two in the room. Often, people would open up to her, seek her as a comforting friend, or the right person to repeat a choice bit of gossip to, for it was true that she was sincere in all her speech, and it was the dearest wish of her heart to spread happiness to all. Celebrian boosted one's trust in her by never letting a confidence slip past her lips. In many ways, she was the silent eyes and ears of Ost-in-Edhil. 

Accordingly, Caffrawen felt that she had met a kindred spirit.

"I know how that feels. Celebrimbor means well, but sometimes I think he forgets I'm his cousin and not his twenty-year old niece," she replied, half in vexation, the other half in tolerant amusement.* 

"And it's not as if we're unworthy of trust - I knew about Sauron's newly built stronghold in Mordor_ ages_ before anyone else did - and they knew I knew! Was in the same room with them when the messenger ran in! Not a word did I mention of it, and they didn't even tell me not to!" She paused. "That may well have been because they were preoccupied with the matter at hand, but _still_..."

Caffrawen nodded fervently in agreement. "I knew about the Elessar _ten years_ before it was even mentioned to the Lord and Lady in hopes of a public presentation! Didn't say a word, even when people began to ask why Celebrimbor turned an interesting shade of green for some time." 

Celebrian giggled, a cheerful sound. "I had wondered about that! Now, then, Caffrawen, would you say that we have justified our grievances to each other enough to reap some benefit of our positions?"

The Smith was instantly on her guard. "I suppose that we have..."

Celebrian pushed her silver locks behind her head, anticipation gleaming in her eyes. "Well then, my fine Smithing friend, I've a proposition. You tell _me _why Mother and Father and your cousin are closeted and waiting for this Annatar fellow's arrival, and I will show _you_ how I spy on their conferences."

Caffrawen backtracked mentally, considering her circumstances. Here she was, about to reveal matters of high state to someone whom she did not know beyond a short conversation, a person who was not even intimately involved with or informed about Smithing and security matters (officially, at least.) Not to mention that agreeing would enable her to spy on the private conversations of _the Lord and Lady of Ost-in-Edhil!_

With Celebrimbor, when in disfavor, she could always weasel her way back into his good graces without a great deal of effort. Filial love knew annoyance, but no ends. Lord Celeborn, while commanding of respect and iron of will, and certainly with the power to shame her publicly, or even imprison her for a time, had possible punishments with feasible consequences. With Galadriel, only an idiot would not sense and pay sharp attention to the aura of power and command that followed her as surely as her shadow, unearthly and composedly cool. Celebrimbor might make one feel ashamed, and Celeborn had the power to place her into confinement, but Galadriel's punishment…did not bear imagining.

She was, however, a Smith, and the chief weakness of nearly all Smiths was the pursuit of knowledge. Glancing up, Caffrawen saw Celebrian extend her hand, an expectant look upon her face. 

Without further considering the consequences, she extended her own hand, briefly clasping Celebrian's own. "Deal."

"Excellent. This way, if you please. If you could tell me the circumstances as we go? We can't make much noise once we reach the spot." Celebrian turned to guide her accomplice through a side chamber. Caffrawen matched her pace to Celebrian's own.

"Lord Annatar - we really don't know who he is, save that he says he's a servant of the Valar, and he knows more about Smithing than my cousin. He claims to want to help us with creating weaponry and new trinkets that can help our cause in protecting Middle-Earth from Sauron." Caffrawen paused for breath as Celebrian held up a hand to silence her. They listened, poised on the threshold of a doorframe, then darted across to a darkened room and continued walking.

"He's been twice invited to meet your parents since arriving here a week ago, and he's managed to miss both appointments."

"Mother won't be taking kindly to that."

"I'd expect not. In any case, my cousin and your parents received letters of warning from the High King Gil-galad and his Herald, Elrond-"

"Elrond, did you say?" A queer look passed over Celebrian's face. Caffrawen later realized it to be a rare loss of composure for the young Lady.

"Aye, Elrond. The letters warned that they had not allowed Lord Annatar within their borders. They weren't certain where his loyalties lay, and exhorted us to follow their example. Better safe than sorry, I guess." Celebrian nodded, then put a finger to her lips as she led Caffrawen down a flight of stairs and into another small chamber, sparsely decorated, used as Celebrian's study, to judge from the stacks of books and what could only be Celebrian's riding habit draped over a nearby chair. With only one window, the room was coolly dim, as no fires had been laid nor tapers been lit. 

Taking care that their steps were even more soundless than usual, the _bess_ crept over towards a nondescript crimson tapestry that covered a portion of the wall. Celebrian flipped it back, revealing a small crawl-space that extended back some four feet or so, before stopping at a wall that was pockmarked with small holes that extended into darkness. Each hole was no bigger than a shirt-button, but as Celebrian demonstrated, pressing her pointed ear against one of the holes, it was possible to listen into the formal hall. Caffrawen, moving tentatively, pressed an ear to another hole 

"And one of the farming implements, so simple that it shames me, is this cylinder riddled with spikes, pulled by a team of horses!"

Caffrawen jumped back in shock at the sound of Celebrimbor's voice. Celebrian's amused glance took in the Smith's shocked look. She began to write on a scrap of parchment pulled from her desk. Caffrawen looked down at the hasty scrawl. 

__

You Smiths aren't the only ones to make ingenious devices.

They grinned at each other momentarily, then immediately went back to pressing their ears against the wall as Celebrimbor picked his dialogue back up. "...and these miniscule holes made in the earth aerate the soil, making for healthier crops. Not only that, but pass over the ground several times with this device, and we may well have another way of planting our crops!"

Caffrawen rolled her eyes, aware of Celebrian's scrutiny, and not caring in the slightest. The placement of the crawlspace was such that it was far enough from the Lord and Lady's dais in the formal hall, ensuring that small noises went unnoticed. The acoustics had been taken into account, making it so that the silent spy-chamber caught every whisper in the hall.

The small talk between Celebrimbor and the Lord and Lady continued for a time, and the two spies quietly shifted, attempting to find more comfortable positions, attempting not to wriggle with impatience like elflings.

***

__

Background Music: "Hello Beautiful" from Xena: Warrior Princess, Volume Four, Track 10

The quiet sound of heavy doors turning on well-oiled hinges focused their attention once again to their posts. Measured steps became louder and louder as they drew near to where Caffrawen guessed that Celeborn and Galadriel would be seated in state. The footsteps stopped, and there was a brief pause in which Caffrawen supposed Annatar was bowing.

"My Lords Celeborn and Celebrimbor, my Lady Galadriel. I am Lord Annatar, and I deeply regret not meeting the two of you when bidden." The oily voice of Lord Annatar seeped through the spy-holes and into the ears of the two listening _bess_. Out of the corner of her eye, Caffrawen saw Celebrian recoil from her spy-hole a fraction of an inch.

"Such delinquencies are not of importance at this time, Lord Annatar. Nor are further pleasantries." Lord Celeborn's voice rang in the formal hall, amplified by the echoing acoustics that Caffrawen and Celebrian were taking advantage of. "You can best make amends for such by stating your origin and intentions while residing in Ost-in-Edhil."

"My Lord and Lady, surely the good Lord Celebrimbor has conveyed my greetings and intentions to you? I would have thought them of utmost importance." The tone was emotionless, but to Caffrawen's ears, it was almost mocking. She heard feet shifting on the floor, as if suddenly uncomfortable, and guessed that they belonged to Celebrimbor. A motion caught her eye, and she saw that Celebrian was slowly shaking her head. The message was clear: _You do not address Mother or Father so._

"Since Lord Celebrimbor has been under your tutelage since your arrival, one would expect him to have the same opportunity for discussion with us as you would, Lord Annatar. Yet he has, even though it was not his especial duty to do so. The procedure for all Elven cities decrees that visitors must declare themselves to the leaders of the city should they wish to conduct business therein. Therefore, for the benefit of myself and my Lord, I would ask you once more to state your origins and intentions for fair Ost-in-Edhil."

Caffrawen had not known that the Lady Galadriel could wield sarcasm when needed.

"Of course." Annatar sounded a bit chastened. "No insult was intended, my Lady. I have come from Valinor, the Blessed Shores, created and sent by the Valar as an emissary unto the Firstborn, to help guide you and your people to victory against Morgoth's successor, Sauron."

Caffrawen winced, as those with Noldor heritage could not even speak the name of Morgoth, so deeply did they hate him. To hear it so easily rolling off Annatar's oily tongue gave her pause. Celebrian looked at her, momentarily concerned, then pressed her ear to the spy-hole as the voices resumed.

"And what proof can you produce that you carry the favor and do the will of the Valar?" Celeborn resumed the questioning.

"Only the proof of my good word. I chanced to meet Enerdhil, while training under Aule and learning his craft. He mentioned that Master Celebrimbor was the finest Elven-Smith since his grandfather, and if the eventual plan of the Valar would work, that Master Celebrimbor must be heavily involved."

There was a significant pause. Instead of leaping ahead to the specifics of such a Valar-guided plan, Celeborn stuck to his knives.

"And so the Valar, knowing our customs and suspicions of foreigners bearing gifts, send in an emissary with no credits or references to his name, and expect us to immediately welcome and support him? I mean no offense, Lord Annatar," Celeborn continued, his voice filled with sincerity, "But the Valar are not giving us secure footing in this new plan, whatever it should happen to be."

"Precisely, Lord Celeborn."

"I beg your pardon?" The note in Celeborn's voice signaled consternation, and beside Caffrawen, Celebrian fidgeted, crushing a fold of her skirt within a suddenly tightly squeezed palm, rubbing it together to create a dry, quick sound that Caffrawen had to shush her from doing. The Smith decided that the Lady Celebrian must have heard that note in her father's voice rarely to produce such a reaction.

"The Valar have given me no credentials, for all I bring to fair Ost-in-Edhil is the knowledge within my head. Aule has instructed me well in this matter, and I am prepared to guide the Smiths in their creation of works truly awesome. The choice that you have in this matter is whether to take advantage of this knowledge or not. I pose no threat to your city, and if you should desire it, I shall leave immediately. But the Valar believe this to be another gift, the gift of free will and its exertion over these matters. It would be simplest to trust the word of a messenger bearing credentials, and less so to trust one on blind faith."

"Nay. Simplest of all would be to take one at one's word and trust them entirely. The High King Gil-galad and his Herald, Master Elrond, have bidden us to heed their reservations about letting those such as yourself have free reign in our realms." Galadriel was unmoved, and this impressed Caffrawen. 

"Alas for the weakness of the great! For a mighty king is Gil-galad, and wise in all lore is Master Elrond, and yet they will not aid me in my labours. Can it be that they do not desire to see other lands become as blissful as their own? But wherefore should Middle-earth remain for ever desolate and dark, whereas the Elves could make it as fair as Eressea, nay even as Valinor? And since you have not returned thither, as you might, I perceive that you love this Middle-earth, as do I. Is it not then our task to labour together for its enrichment, and for the raising of all the Elven-kindreds that wander here untaught to the height of that power and knowledge which those have who are beyond the Sea?" Annatar's voice rang with passion, echoing in all listening ears, striking a chord within each of them that spoke of pride, of frustration, of a stubborn love of all that was perfect and imperfect of their home in Middle-earth. 

It also reminded them of the always-present call of the Sea, the whisper of bliss within the reach of an outstretched hand.

Caffrawen rocked back on her heels, momentarily stunned.

Galadriel was the first to digest this speech, answering with more composure than an eagle standing guard on a cliff. "If the High King and Master Elrond should refuse such knowledge, exactly what in the situation of Ost-in-Edhil should make us more receptive to such overtures? Your gift of knowledge is a tempting one, to be certain. But in this day and age, every gift horse must be thoroughly examined before it can be trusted to bear a mount."

"I understand your concerns, my Lady. You and your Lord, and Master Celebrimbor are entrusted with the safety and security of your people in Eregion, and a mighty task it is. Ost-in-Edhil is closer to Mordor, more exposed to attack than Lindon, which is more populous. This fact has made Lindon more complacent about some matters, and highly suspicious of others. They were satisfied well enough with their armies not to take advantage of the will of the Valar, but paranoid of a single being who only offered to instruct them in a task, which they could refuse after having heard the specifics of. No doubt the High King and Master Elrond distrusted me enough to the point of not wanting to be tempted by my offer." Annatar's voice seemed to still reverberate in the room, tantalizing the listeners with the specifics of his plan.

At long last, Celeborn took the bait. "If you would be so kind as to relate the specifics of the Valar's aforementioned plans, I will trust in our Master Artificer's ability to discover any danger inherent in its execution."

Caffrawen could only imagine what her cousin looked like at that moment.

"Of course, my Lord," Annatar agreed before pausing to place emphasis on his next statement. "If a Smith-invented tool should be the instrument through which peace would be restored throughout the lands of Middle-earth, such an instrument would need to fulfill several deficiencies that prevent such bliss from becoming possible."

"The first deficiency would be Middle-earth's intrinsic nature - that of degradation and rebuilding. Every season, something is destroyed as a result of some natural calamity that cannot be prevented. Suppose we did have that power, the power to control the weather, the very elements of the Earth. Such a thing would be immensely useful in defending the realms from orc incursions, beyond protecting ourselves from the more extreme elements. Seasons would pass, but we would have a taste of Valinor on Middle-earth shores."

"The second deficiency would be the lack of unity between all Free Peoples of Middle-earth. We suffer from spontaneous alliances that only awaken when one is in trouble - some refuse entirely to associate with other groups." The company knew he referred to the animosity between the Dwarves and the Elves of Lindon. "Such an innovation would have to create some unity and harmony between all Allies, create a link of strength by which all could be bound. A series of balances would have to be made, naturally, with mortal Men receiving the largest number of these innovations, and the fewest number to the Elves, who have the advantage in other respects. The Dwarves would have a middling amount to counterbalance the other two."

"The third deficiency is that each of the Free Peoples lacks something that would be immensely useful in curing the problems within their own peoples. The world of Men suffers greatly from a lack of unity, a lack of common purpose. With such an innovation, the race of Men could be centralized, allowing them to focus on dealing with the enemy. Dwarves suffer from a lack of time, for the majority of their own is spent looking for materials with which to make their great weaponry. If they knew where best to obtain such materials, more of their time could be spent forging and fighting. And then, of course, the race of Elves..."

He paused meaningfully. _As if we needed more dramatic emphasis on this moment_, Caffrawen thought irritably.

"The Elves suffer from a lack of heart. I do not mean that they are less courageous and stouthearted than they could be, but that there is a weariness of spirit that results from all things around them decaying and growing weary with age. If one could rekindle those spirits and breathe new life into them, the rejuvenation would be the impetus needed for the Firstborn to increase their power and to wage an offensive against the Enemy before he can strike again."

Caffrawen felt her throat grow dry and her head swell with such pronouncements.

"Power?" queried the Lady Galadriel.

"The power to bend others to one's will - not forcefully of course - but the power to make many see the truth and be...moved...by it, all at one time."

"Exactly what instruments are we intended to use to achieve such ends?" said Celebrimbor, speaking up for the first time. 

There was another emphatical pause, which Annatar seemed to be fond of.

"Rings of power, Master Celebrimbor." Caffrawen could have sworn a sly smile was stretched across Annatar's waxy face as he practically purred the response.

"Power for whom?" Celebrimbor questioned in a firm voice, seemingly feeling that this was his area of expertise to question Annatar about.

"Power for those who bear them, of course. Leaders among the Free Peoples who would best use the rings to aid their kingdoms, leaders chosen by council and debate. No one will be bound to another's will by these rings, for this is not a power of domination. It is merely a power of unity and amity. You expect your Smiths to follow your orders, do you not, Master Celebrimbor?"

"I...yes, I do." For the first time, Celebrimbor sounded uncertain of himself.

"Think of this then as the ultimate communication device. With it, you can command and control the happenings of your realm to a much greater degree." Celebrian glanced at Caffrawen, and the Smith could see that the daughter of Galadriel was much shaken by such pronouncements.

"Could these rings be destroyed upon need?" Celeborn had resumed his questioning, regaining control of the situation.

"Upon great need. But the effort to create is such that only after great deliberation would I advocate destroying them. Indeed, only if the Enemy were on the verge of possessing them would I endorse their destruction."

The steady, soft scratching of Celebrian's charcoal stick against the parchment startled Caffrawen, who glanced down to read what the other _bess_ was writing.

__

Do you believe him?

"Annatar?" Caffrawen mouthed.

Celebrian nodded. Caffrawen paused a moment, frowning in thought, then shrugged. She did not entirely know what to make of the situation. She did not trust him, of that she was certain, but she could not entirely discount the value of the knowledge that he was offering.

"In any case, it will take several hundred years before the skills needed to forge the rings will be developed. If you should choose to harbor me in your city, I believe that by that time, I will have shown myself worthy of your trust. I am your graces' humble servant." His defense finished, Annatar was silent.

Galadriel spoke into the silence. "Thank you, Lord Annatar. I myself know much less of Smithing matters than Master Celebrimbor, and the same can be said of my Lord. Thus, I am inclined to place my trust in the hands of Master Celebrimbor as to your tenure here in Ost-in-Edhil. The moment he suspects something ill in your designs, you will never set foot in our city again. But if you hold true to your words, then all of Ost-in-Edhil will rise to defend you, to the smallest Elfling. What say you to these terms, Master Celebrimbor?"

"I find them most agreeable and generous. Nothing will escape my eyes, once my Lady's command is to keep watchful." Caffrawen grimaced, not knowing if she should be proud or terribly fearful.

"My Lord and Lady are most generous. Rest assured, you will have no more complaint of my behavior than a commander has of his soldiers." Rustling cloth signified his bow, and the council had ended.

Caffrawen shot to her feet as quietly as she could, meeting Celebrian's startled gaze. "_I need to get to the library!_" Understanding the sudden haste, Celebrian rose gracefully and pulled the red cover back over the hidden chamber. With a soft touch on Caffrawen's sleeve, she guided her through dimly lighted corridors and up a flight of stairs before turning a corner and leading her into a richly decorated library. No time did Caffrawen have to appreciate her surroundings before the sound of evenly paced footsteps approaching the library met their ears. 

With all the grace and innocence of a cat, Celebrian snatched a tome from the shelves and opened it, flipping to a random page. Beckoning to her companion, they both made a great show of leaning over the table and indicating various sections of the text as a maid softly rapped on the door. 

"Enter." Celebrian beckoned, and for all the world, it looked as if the daughter of the line of Feanor and the daughter of Celebrian had been deeply engrossed in _Farming Methods of Southern Gondor_.

"My Lady Caffrawen, the council has been finished, and the Lord Celebrimbor bids you return with him home," the wraith-like maid intoned calmly, seeing nothing amiss.

"Thank you. Would you mind guiding me to my cousin after I bid the Lady Celebrian farewell? I am afraid I do not know my way very well," Caffrawen replied, her lungs bursting with effort to catch her breath after the news she had heard and the mad dash she had just run. The maid bobbed her head in assent, and Caffrawen turned to Celebrian. 

Sinking into a curtsey, Caffrawen rose and looked the silver-haired spy straight in the eye. "Thank you most dearly for introducing me to the wonders kept within your home. I have learned much from this experience, Lady Celebrian."

Celebrian caught the sly glint in Caffrawen's grey eyes, and responded in kind. "You are most welcome, Lady Caffrawen. I think we have both learned much to mull over in the coming weeks." Caffrawen bowed her head and turned to follow the waiting maid.

***

Having observed Celebrimbor's previously invigorated mood from Celebrian's spying chamber, Caffrawen was a bit disconcerted at the look he turned on her as she followed the maid into the foyer of the Lord and Lady's home.

Was he angry with her? His eyes narrowed and his lips pursed, before settling into a more placid arrangement as he swiveled his head back to face the Lord and Lady. Annatar had apparently already left, and neither Galadriel nor Celeborn's expressions gave any hint as to what had taken place.

The farewells and requisite courtesies were brief and almost curt, but then, each party had much weighing on their minds. Together, they stepped out, discovering that the rain had tapered off entirely and the skies had cleared, creating a very wet outdoors with a fresh chill breeze. Almost no lighting illuminated their path back home. The lack of cheerful environment would have left no trace on Caffrawen's mood, if Celebrimbor had spoken one word to her on the walk home.

At first, she turned her head towards him, expecting him to fill her in on the Council, or, at the very least, whether Annatar would be staying within Ost-in-Edhil, since he assumed that she had been in the library all that time. He would not meet her gaze, did nothing save place a hand on the small of her back to propel her forward. They walked in tense silence, their awareness honed down to the sound of their heartbeats. Caffrawen felt the odd, burning sensation of guilt, but could not pinpoint where she had offended her cousin. Her body, usually so pliant and relaxed at the friendly touch of his hand, was taut, like a rabbit preparing to bolt, and she became aware that the same could be said of him.

They arrived at their home, and Caffrawen turned to bolt the door. When she turned back around, she found Celebrimbor's eyes blazing into her as unchecked anger flickered across his features, and a part of her quailed in timidity. Unbidden, she took a step back at the heat of his gaze.

"Two things, Caffra," he growled, in the tone of voice he used for Smiths presenting shoddy work. "The first - you should know that Annatar is staying in Ost-in-Edhil under _my_ watch, and under _my_ jurisdiction. I believe he will help to usher in new victories, and improve our general state. He is under my orders not to breathe a word about the scrap shed or the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. You will benefit much from his influence."

"And the second?"

"_Never read my missives again,_"he growled at her before turning smartly on his heel and marching towards his rooms with a measured step, and shutting the door with deliberate silence.

Caffrawen stood at the door in shock, slowly letting her hands fall to her sides. Taking a steadying breath, she glanced in on the fire in the kitchen grate to ensure that it would burn itself out, before retreating to her own room and mechanically changing into a nightshift. Her mind whirled with too many conflicting emotions, too much information, and too much drama. 

Celebrimbor would be stiff and formal the next morning, but he would forget his anger and be the same smiling cousin she knew within the week. Why, then, did she hurt so acutely at all that had transpired?

Blowing out the taper at her bedside, she slid into the blissfully cool sheets and prepared for sleep, her mind calming and collecting itself enough to send her on the paths of Elvish dreams. 

Her reverie was interrupted by the tap of a finger hitting her windowsill at the foot of her bed. She sat bolt upright, but relaxed at the sight of Elimani poised at the opening.

"Weren't asleep, were you?" He gave her a half-smile, his eyes still shrouded in shadow, his shoulders drooped. Caffrawen grunted in sleepy irritation.

"Doesn't matter now. What's gotten into you? Shouldn't you be romancing the fair sister of Finervenn?" His fair features fell at her words, and Caffrawen cursed herself again for lack of tact, in spite of his rude awakening.

"Nay...I...can we talk?"

"Only if you climb in. I'm comfortable right where I am." He chuckled, the mirthful sound seeming a bit forced. Sliding in through the window that would only hold glass in chill weather, he came in headfirst, in a sort of awkward dive. Wriggling his hips to give himself some momentum, he ignored Caffrawen's giggle and performed a forward roll, landing on her bed and coming to rest upon her legs. Giving her knee a playful squeeze and moving off her legs, Elimani managed to distract Caffrawen from getting a good look at his face. 

Caffrawen, however, was an apt enough judge of his moods to realize something was amiss. Sitting up fully, she scooted over toward him and touched his shoulder, making him turn towards her. She met his eyes and saw in them a mirror of her own previous pain and turmoil.

"What happened?" she queried softly.

He gathered himself and his thoughts, unconsciously leaning back towards Caffrawen. She saw Elimani's eyes close in sorrow, and the features of his face tighten and release as he tipped his head back, seeking comfort. Absently she brushed her hand over his hair in a soothing caress.

"It was actually going rather well...Findineth and I seemed to have this...this _something_...I started wondering if...if she might be the one."

"She still could be."

"No. You see, we were walking to a tavern when the storm struck. Pulled her inside, thought it was the gentlemanly gesture to make. Who should she spy in there, but an old friend recently back from Lindon? A _benn_." He sighed.

"She deserted you?"

"Not exactly. She...they...they bonded."

"Oh." 

With that one statement, Elimani had quashed all hopeful and hollow statements she could have given him. Among Elves, there was an eternal search for one's other half. Illuvatar had created the Elves in such a way that each had a corresponding fea-mate. Bonding was the joining of these two fea in a bond that transcended verbal communication, allowing emotion, perception, and thought to be experienced by each Elf in regard to their mate. Concurred only by the death of one mate, it was usually renewed in the Halls of Mandos, as the grieving widowed spouse faded away and followed their mate into death. It was a search that permeated the mind of every unattached Elf, an undercurrent of excitement in wondering who it might be that would share the other half of their soul. Elves could know each other for years, or only a few days before a bond would be formed, for such a thing was usually triggered by high emotion. If Findineth had spotted her 'old friend' from across the room after many years, chances were that her high emotion upon seeing him had awakened this new connection, joining Findineth and her bond-mate eternally in love, and leaving Elimani in the dust.

Sympathy for Elimani washed over her like a wave. If she was truly honest, Caffrawen might have admitted to herself that there was a bit of relief mixed in there as well. She turned her thoughts from that, however, and focused on comforting the lonely _benn_ before her.

"Come now Elimani, if she bonded with another, then she wasn't meant for you. You'll find your mate eventually. We all will. It's a matter of not losing hope, of keeping your heart unwearied and your spirit optimistic." Unbidden, Annatar's promise of what the rings of power could do for the Elves came to her mind, and she pushed it away quickly, not wanting to dwell on it. 

"I know that you're right. My heart is weary of loneliness."

"But you're not alone. I'm here, Celebrimbor is in the next room, despite his grouchy mood, and the Gwaith-i-Mirdain are your brothers forever. We desert you not."

"I know. And I know that _she_ will happen along someday, and my life will know completeness, as will all of ours when we find our mates." He paused then. "Why is Celebrimbor grouchy?"

"You really want to know?" He nodded, his mood having shifted as suddenly as the cloud cover on a mountain.

"Get comfortable, Elimani. This is going to take a while." And Caffrawen related the tale of all that had happened that night, emphasizing the need for silence as to how she knew so many details about the Council. They talked long into the night, Caffrawen and Elimani leaning against each other, retaining contact with one of the few certain things in their lives.

***

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Did you make it through? If you didn't, I don't blame you. Here's the summary as promised.

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Chapter Summary: Caffrawen and Elimani are sparring, and Elimani mentions he is courting another bess_. Jealous, Caffrawen leaves for home, and finds a messenger with urgent word from the High-King Gil-galad, warning Celebrimbor of Annatar, saying that he was an untrustworthy presence. Frightened, Caffrawen is further disconcerted to realize that Celebrimbor has already revealed to Annatar the deepest secrets of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. Upbraiding him for his lack of discretion, she gives him the missive and encourages him to bring Annatar to a council with Celeborn and Galadriel. Kept from witnessing the Council legitimately, Caffrawen is allowed to spy on the proceedings with help from Galadriel and Celeborn's daughter, Celebrian. During the Council, Annatar reveals that he intends to help create Rings of Power to unite all Free Peoples against Sauron. Though still distrusting him, Galadriel places Annatar under Celebrimbor's jurisdiction, and allows the work to proceed. Angry with Caffrawen for questioning him, Celebrimbor leads her home. Elimani, fresh from rejection in his courting of the other _bess_, seeks out Caffrawen for support, and ends up getting an earful about the day's events. _

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Canon Deviations - It is not recorded in Tolkien how far the Elves had come with technological advancement, particularly whether they had catapults or not. I could be mistaken, there could be a reference to the use of catapults somewhere in the Silmarillion, but at this point I'm really not inclined to search. If you find I am wrong in my written assumption, please e-mail me, and I'll try to fix it.

- Hmmmm. Would Celebrian have been that devious? Granted, I am taking a few liberties with Celeborn and Galadriel's parenting abilities. Since it was the dearest wish of Galadriel's heart to maintain the freshness and youth of the world around her, I assumed that she might have tried to keep her daughter innocent and unwearied in spirit by the doings of the world. Since any bess_ that would later marry Lord Elrond would have to have some feisty quality to her nature, I have tried to bring that out in Celebrian's nature with the spy chamber._

- How did Lord Annatar talk his way into Ost-in-Edhil? Except for the quote at the top of the chapter, used in the Council, and the fact that Galadriel never trusted him, we have no recording of the actual council.

- Bonding. I admit that this concept is partly derived from Tolkien's concept of Elf-marriage, and compounded with ideas from Anne McCaffrey's Dragons of Pern series. Do the Elves eternally search for the other half of their soul and share a connection as deep as described? Who knows? I would like to think it happened this way, though.

Canon Explanations

* It is unknown whether Ost-in-Edhil had such an advanced sewage system, but since the early Harrappan peoples of India had advanced sewage systems with a lower technology level than Ost-in-Edhil enjoys, I assumed that the Elves would, too.

* Any Middle Eastern food enthusiasts might recognize what Caffra is fixing is a rough form of hummus. Were chickpeas in Middle-earth? I don't know, but since so many other familiar foods are, we might assume this is, too. 

* Elves achieve maturity at fifty years of age. A twenty-year old such as is described here would be roughly the equivalent of a seven-year-old human.

Disclaimer: No one was hurt spying on the Lady Galadriel in this piece of fiction, but any who wish to attempt such a feat should bear in mind the fate of the man who peeped at Lady Godiva.


	8. A Thistle Seed Regiment

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Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's works, but they seem to own me.

Author's Note: At first, this chapter may seem like a feminist rallying-point. I can assure you that this is a far cry from the theme imparted in Mona Lisa Smile. All will be revealed, and revealed to be more complex.

****

Chapter Seven: A Thistle-Seed Regiment

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Imladris, 3441, Second Age

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Background Music: 'Bloodlust' from Xena: Warrior Princess, Vol. 1, Track 28.

In the aftermath of such revelations about each other, the women and the _bess_ lapsed into silence as they continued their tasks. 

From her slumped shoulders and downcast eyes, Caffrawen could tell that Romera was still embarrassed about revealing her status as a camp-follower to a person she'd barely met. Caffrawen had attempted to reassure her on that score, but she could still sense the woman's discomfort. Awkwardness would have to be awkwardness for the time being.

Naimi and Seatra were still watching her out of the corner of their eyes. Not out of distrust, Caffrawen knew, but out of wonderment for her ignorance of their culture. That in turn reduced Caffrawen to embarrassment and awkwardness, at not catching Romera's many hints about her profession, and making her define a practice that she was obviously not proud of performing.

To fill the crushing silence as they spread the many articles of clothing to dry on the sweet grasses of the riverbank, Caffrawen found herself desperately searching for some acceptable topic of conversation, determined not to lose her new friends to cultural misunderstanding.

"What do you plan on doing after the Alliance leaves Imladris?" she spoke to the air, hoping that one of the women would catch the thread of speech and spin a conversation with it.

Naimi looked up in mild interest. "Go back home and rebuild, I suppose. Should be close to harvest time by the time we're back, and we'll help out with that." 

Seatra fiddled with a few stalks of clover, idly knotting them in a chain. "Same for me." Caffrawen noticed that she made no mention of her betrothed, Tirick.

__

They did not expect to see their men ever again.

Romera broke in, interrupting her train of thought. "I will retrieve my son from the family he stays with, and then we will go together to West Harbour," she said wistfully, no doubt thinking of her son.

"West Harbour?" Caffrawen questioned, thinking of Mithlond.

"A little village where my grandfather was born, fairly well hidden in a sheltered cove. Few know of its existence."

The meaning behind Romera's words hit Caffrawen with a sickening thud. _She was looking for a place to hide if the Alliance was defeated and Sauron overran Middle-Earth._ It seemed to Caffrawen that her extremities were being numbed and iced in the wake of the undercurrent of despair that she was encountering.

Hope had fled the Second-born. 

"Will you be going overseas, then?" Naimi asked, her head tilted in a birdlike fashion. There was no condemnation in her features, only curiosity. 

__

No harm in giving her the flat truth, right? Romera was honest enough.

"No. That path is forbidden to me." Curiously, there was no emotion in her voice, only an acceptance of a fact that was near impossible for her to change.

"Forbidden?" Romera was intrigued. "Is it related to what you spoke of earlier?"

Caffrawen felt a perverse glee that she had finally gained the woman's trust to the point where Romera felt comfortable being a bit nosy.

"It is. You see, my grandfather, Feanor, was a Prince of Elves. His greatest works, the Silmarils, were stolen, and his father, King Finwe, slain by the Dark One-*"

"_Sauron?_" Seatra broke in with an incredulous whisper, quite forgetting the trousers she was supposed to be turning over to dry equally.

"Nay. Sauron's master...I cannot speak his name - it is the manner of Noldorian Elves to hate him so much that we cannot even speak his name." She faltered a moment, and then continued.

"So my Grandfather became King - but he wanted to go after the Dark One, to retrieve his Silmarils and to revenge his father's death. So when the Valar stood in his way, he committed the terrible and unforgivable crime of slaying another Elf...actually, he slew many, but the fact of the matter was that he was the first Elf ever to Kinslay. The Valar exiled him to Middle-Earth with all his followers."

"Did you...Kinslay?" This in a whisper from Naimi, brown eyes wide, unconsciously twisting her roughened hands in her lap.

"_No!_" She recalled her manners. "I...am sorry, I am accused of such quite often, but Feanor died before I was born, and the last Kinslaying occurred when I had not yet come of age. My grandfather and his sons killed many, many Elves in a bid to retrieve the Silmarils, and they are all dead. My cousin and I caught the brunt of the hatred that most Elves bear towards our family. The exile still holds."

She debated with herself for half a moment to reveal more, then continued, acutely aware that she was talking about herself quite a bit, and feeling more than a little ashamed.

"Then, to make things worse, Sauron tricked my cousin into helping him into power. My cousin was so eager to make things right again, to remove the Evil from Middle-Earth, and Sauron knew it. Played him like a fiddle," she spat bitterly, "and me left to wreck my vengeance on Sauron."

Hate is a terrible, powerful force. Only love may stand against it, and Caffrawen knew this. She also knew the length and breadth of the hate within her for Sauron. It was like a black hole, lined with slime-covered rock, stinking with festered anger and resentment. It had started with love, the need to prove her love to those who had fallen in the struggle against Sauron. She was aware that if she fell into that dank pit, there was no coming out. 

So she sat nearby, not daring herself to get too close. All she needed was a brief image of her father to remember how hate could so quickly spur a person into doing unthinkable acts. Yet she also kept an image of Ost-in-Edhil close to her heart, lest her fear of becoming too hateful led to apathy. Hate did have its uses.

"You would wreck vengeance on Sauron?" Romera said in a slightly sardonic tone. "I don't mean to impugn the abilities of the Elves, or the nobility of your bloodline, but none can stand against him."

"None can stand against him alone. That is why the Alliance was formed, was it not? I've been turned out of Imladris, so I'm going down to fight with the Alliance." The words came out of her mouth with surprising ease.

"_They let she-el-_bess_ fight?_" cried Seatra in an incredulous voice. All the women shifted noticeably closer to her, leaning in with interest.

"Not exactly. Still, I don't see how they could really stop me. They couldn't hold me here, and they need every available soldier."

Naimi and Seatra exchanged a quick glance. "Have you ever fought Orcs before?" they said, almost in unison.

"Yes. Have you?" Caffrawen questioned, increasingly desperate to switch the topic of conversation away from her own doings.

"No. So you're just going to walk off and fight down in Mordor?" Naimi asked, much to Caffrawen's discomfiture.

"Something like that. A few _bess_ might come with me, or not, as they choose." She hoped by stating it blankly enough, they would lose interest. 

She was wrong.

"Could I come with you?" Naimi blurted the sentence out before even she realized its meaning. Yet she did not retract it.

"And I?" Seatra piped up.

Caffrawen blinked. "What?"

Seatra glanced at Naimi for a moment before answering for the both of them. "Same reason as you. I'd like to pay back those Orcs for what they did to my village. For what they would do to my family if we did not stand against them."

"I'd say there are a lot of women in the camp that might find this prospect appealing," Romera put in, "Even the camp-followers...we know that when our men leave us, even if they win, not all will survive. For us there would be that interminable space of time between knowing who survived and who perished, or even if anyone would come at all, save an invading Orc army. At that point there would be little that we could do."

If Caffrawen's soul had been a harp, Romera would have just plucked one of the lower strings, causing a deep vibration to pass through her entire world. _Build a regiment...of women and _bess_? _

"I think waiting is the worst thing in life," Naimi said, in a voice that was hardly her own, "When you can do nothing, knowing that your life is being decided as you wait, and having no ability to affect or even know about it."

"It is," Caffrawen replied absently. "So, about how many would you say would be interested in such a venture?" The words spilled from her mouth before she could even think of stopping them.

"I don't know, but I could find out!" said Seatra brightly. She exchanged an excited glance with her cousin. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Caffrawen watched Romera. The woman had looked excited and enlivened for a few moments, before seeming to remember something, the light in her eyes dying away, returning to the tranquility of their former state, masking whatever she felt inside.

"Will you fight, Romera?" Naimi asked in a quiet voice. Apparently Caffrawen wasn't the only one keeping an eye on the play of emotion across Romera's face.

The woman sighed, closing her eyes. "I would, I would love to...but I cannot. I'm all Romeron has. I cannot bear to think of him with that family all his life...Eru knows what they have already told him about me..." She cleared her throat for a moment. "I would, but my ties hold me here. I cannot abandon him."

"But would you learn to fight?" Caffrawen pressed. "Not to fight in the Alliance, but to defend yourself and Romeron. I've noticed, in the years I've spent on this world, that there are few talents that go to waste, or are never needed. Defending oneself is a skill that, sadly, is almost never untried. Surely you'd want to give yourself and Romeron a fighting chance?"

"Perhaps," Romera said coolly, "But the one thing I can aid you in is recruitment. If ever there were a group of women eager to do a day's work and hold their head up high afterward, it would be the other women of my trade. I will talk with them when we return."

"It's settled, then!" crowed Seatra, exchanging an excited glance with Naimi. Caffrawen noted this and frowned, fear beginning to clutch her heart in an icy grip.

"Seatra...Naimi...our chances of coming back alive are minimal. It is likely that we never will return. And the Orcs aren't kind to their injured foes." _To say the least_, she thought to herself.

Now it was Naimi that faced her, as cool and dignified as Romera. 

"There was once a cow back home that had wandered loose from my father's herd," she began. "The silly thing slipped into a muddy bog and was stranded there for at least an afternoon. We searched for it, and finally Father found it, and it had collapsed from exhaustion and from trying to struggle out of the bog."

"Father tried to lead the cow out of the mud, but she was too exhausted and too scared to move. So he and Uncle took a rope, tying it around her back legs and body in a harness. He called everyone, me, Seatra, our mothers, Aunt Gitty, my brothers, Seatra's sisters...everybody he could to help pull the cow out. The cow budged a little bit, but she was stuck fast."

"So then, who should arrive but Grandmother, irritated as a broody hen about why everyone seemed to have up and left her alone by the house without a word. She picked up the end of the rope and started pulling. Father and Uncle told her to get back in the house, saying that she'd slip and hurt herself, but she wouldn't have it! So we all pulled together, Grandmother too, and out came the cow!"

"Whether we live or die holds no significance, Caffrawen. It is whether we shall make the slightest difference that is of real importance."

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And they account my race as wisest! Reassured, she offered her human friends a smile.

"You are right, Naimi," she said, "Whatever aid we can offer the Alliance helps. Before we can offer that help, however, we must organize ourselves and train, prepare for the months ahead. We're going to need trainers from the soldiers, ones that we can trust, who won't reveal to the leaders, or anyone else, of our plans. We need supplies for the journey and for the days of fighting, weapons, armor, and time to gather the supplies and practice with our trainers in secrecy. We need to recruit, make our regiment as sizeable as we can, and convince women, _bess_, and trainers from both of our races to join us." She might have gone further, but halted her babble in respect of the thoughts of the others.

Astonishingly, they were unperturbed. "We'll start recruiting as soon as we get back," Seatra intoned calmly.

"Get back? Oh, dear, look at the sun! We should be back to help with dinner preparations!" Romera's alarm set them to more agitation than Caffrawen's list of tasks to complete had. Already they had jumped up from the grass and begun to fling still-damp trousers and shirts into their wicker baskets, lifting them and finally placing them atop their heads in a peculiar fashion that Caffrawen had never seen before. From a distance, they resembled angular columns, as they kept both hands up to steady and balance the baskets. A more immediate question, however, had presented itself to her.

"When will I see you again?" The question, although now possessing a certain practical value, was still the plaintive cry of a lonely soul longing for companionship. 

Romera paused and turned, the others following her example. "You will need to know how many we will have recruited by tomorrow. Will you have leave to work down here tomorrow?"

Caffrawen shook her head. "I'm scheduled to work the gardens till noon tomorrow. I could do laundry in the afternoon."

Seatra shook her head. "Naimi and I have washing again tomorrow morning, like the rest of this week, but we'll be mending in the afternoon, no doubt. Romera?"

"I will be…working all day tomorrow," the camp-follower stated delicately.

"I've an idea. Come with me, it's on your way back." The women duly followed the _bess _to the boulder that Romera had sat on to sand the clothing. They now noticed that the dark rock was shot through with deep veins of quartz. On the side of the boulder that rested on shore, a vein had crumbled, allowing the luminescent rock to either crumble to dust or break off in large chunks.

Grabbing one of the larger chunks, Caffrawen displayed it to them.

"When you're here in the morning, Seatra, Naimi, find this vein of quartz. If the number of interested women is low, then just leave one piece of quartz beside this tree," she instructed, pointing to an ash. 

"If the number is somewhat greater, two quartz pieces. If the number is very substantial, then three. That should give me some idea. I've also got laundry to wash in the morning the day after tomorrow. We can compare notes then. I'll be working on the _bess_."

And then, there was nothing for the women to do but agree, wave goodbye, and charge back to the camp. There was nothing left for Caffrawen to do but wave goodbye, and retrieve her own laundry and bear it back to Imladris proper.

***

As she toted her basket up the many stairs leading from the Bruinen to the buildings of Imladris, Caffrawen found herself in an overly pensive state of mind. 

Her objective: to convince Elrond, the High King Gil-galad, King Elendil, his son Isildur, and every officiate heads of the Alliance between Men and Elves to allow the women of the armies and a goodly amount of the _bess _of Imladris to accompany the armies down to Mordor and participate in the fighting.

Her obstacles: Most assuredly, the objections of nearly all said officiate heads. Elrond would suspect her immediately, trusting her as much as she did him. She would have to concentrate her efforts on winning over the High King, who was known for his fairness and practicality. King Elendil was known for his loyalty and just decisions, perhaps he could help? Another important obstacle she would need to navigate would be winning the women and _bess_ over to her cause. Their loyalties were not in question, but the risks they were willing to take were. How many women would be willing to walk into almost certain death? A more personal obstacle - could she live with herself if they did die? 

To be certain, if they were allowed in the armies, most, if not all would die. Many now thought of the Last Alliance as the final, desperate gesture of the Free Peoples. 

Nevertheless, if they did not give it their all in confronting Sauron's legions, they would all certainly die. A less than pleasant notion, but undeniably true.

Philosophy and other considerations aside, she needed to devise a course of action, and soon, if she wanted any chance at getting down to Mordor. 

First course of action - recruit willing women and _bess_ to the cause. She did not foresee this being a great problem in the case of the women - from the examples that Naimi, Seatra, and Romera had set, the feminine side of the race of men were easily adaptable to new forms of living. After all, they had such short lives already, and no chance of rebirth, so changing the entire focus of their nature to ensure their survival was not an uncommon or unheard of thing. With the _bess_, however, such a change would be much more difficult. Their very nature was difficult to change, and such a radical move from the preservation of life to the destruction of life was generally only made at a moment's notice, when no other alternative was available. 

It was often said that _bess_ were fierce fighters, terrible to cross when in battle. So few, though, had ever fought, that it was generally held as a phenomenon only witnessed and performed at the last need. A last-ditch effort, one might say. 

In Caffrawen's experience, most last-ditch efforts failed.

So her task was now to whisper the words of encouragement, to stir within others a fervor that would inspire them to actually train for such an event, to make their blood race in heated anticipation of an untried challenge. She could think of several _bess_ that she was friendly with that who might thrill at such a venture, and could (just as importantly) convince those she was not as friendly with.

Recruitment among the camp women she would leave to Romera, assisted by Seatra and Naimi. If those three were any example of what human women were like, she did not anticipate much resistance to the idea of fighting from that group. 

The task after that would be gathering everyone together and training. She herself was skilled with the quarterstaff, and such training was lending much to her progression with swordplay, as she intended to prove to Elimani tonight. Yet Elimani was not so skilled himself. Who could she find to teach them further? Perhaps she could find someone through Elimani, or perhaps one of the women knew a well-practiced warrior…

They had the summer before them to train, in the moments that they were not working. From now on, every moment counted as time that could be spent training and preparing. Extra supplies for the march down to Mordor would have to be found.

Then, of course, there were the heads of the army to convince…but that could be arranged with a few glib words…

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted as the laundry basket balanced on her hip crashed into a stone that jutted out from the rocky hillside, upon which the path. She grimaced at yet another of life's irritations that could so easily draw her off of her track.

Caffrawen made to resettle the basket on her hip, when an image came to her of the women leaving the Bruinen, baskets perched atop their heads, making three angular columns that gradually disappeared into the trees.

Inquisitively, she shifted the basket atop her head, securing it with both hands, so that the shadow she cast vaguely resembled a tall two-handled drinking jug. Why, this was much easier! Her center of balance was once more focused within herself and not shifted to accommodate the burden in her arms. Caffrawen bounded up the stairs, making plans, and blessing once more the cleverness of Mankind.

***

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Background Music: 'Xena's Web - Goodbye' from Xena: Warrior Princess, Vol. 1, Tracks 14-15

"I am no fighter, Caffra!" An exasperated Tarbereth rounded back on Caffrawen, who maintained her expression of patient persuasiveness. It had taken a good deal of maneuvering to get Tarbereth away from the other _bess_ who were hunting medicinal roots in the valley. As close as they were to Elendil's camp, none of the _bess_ wanted to separate from each other. Safety in numbers, they called it. Even Tarbereth, one of the most level-headed people Caffrawen knew, had been highly reluctant to bound ahead with the Feanorian to examine a small bog for marsh mallow*. 

Not that Caffrawen was all that eager to stand knee-deep in mud to better reach the thicker groves of pale pink flowers to strip them of their leaves and roots.* It was, however, necessary for her to bring Tarbereth over to her side if she wished to convince any others to fight. There was no one else whose influence was so widespread and who made certain that everyone heard her opinion at least once. There was no one else whom she could come to among the _bess_ of Imladris that would prove more beneficial to furthering her aims. 

There were also few other _bess_ that would prove harder to convince than Tarbereth.

"How do you know that for certain, Tarbereth? I've seen you back down Risielwen more than once! Only Elrond can do the same, and that's more out of her respect for his rank than anything else!"

"There is more to being a warrior than attitude, Caffra, and you know it!" With rather more force than was necessary, she pulled a mallow plant from the sodden earth, splattering them both with bits of soil. With a muttered apology, she began stripping it of its roots and leaves, tossing them into the cloth sack slung around her shoulder. 

Caffrawen glanced around to be certain that no one had heard Tarbereth's last cry. The other _bess_ nearby were chattering as they peeled bark from willow trees that preferred to edge the marsh rather than grow in the middle of it. Tall clumps of sedge lined the places where soft ground meshed with formless muck, and slender shafts of sunlight pierced the marshy grove, adding to the steamy heat. Few enough of the _bess_ were nearby for her to relax her guard somewhat.

"There is skill involved, to be certain. Skill with weaponry can be learned, but if you don't have the stomach for battle, skill is useless. And _you do_ have the stomach for battle, Tarbereth. It's a matter of bringing out the skill, a matter of training," Caffrawen said bracingly.

"Even if I did have the stomach and skills to fight, who says that I want to?" Tarbereth trudged through the mud, away from Caffrawen, and towards a more promising clump of marsh mallow. "I am a healer by nature - what is inherent cannot be changed."

"How do you know that?" her friend continued, following her through the mud, pressing the issue. "How are you certain that your spirit would not sing to protect those you loved?"

"I enjoy healing." Tarbereth flipped her long ebony hair over a shoulder, giving Caffrawen a long measuring stare. Caffrawen did not flinch.

"Tarbereth, when do you heal? So few of our warriors - anyone in Imladris, for that matter - need healing of any kind." Caffrawen spoke softly, infusing her words with gentleness and tranquility, realizing that she was about to step into sensitive territory. 

"We are picking medicinal herbs right now," retorted the _bess_ in a tone that began to betray some irritation. She brushed more flyaway strands of hair from her cheek, leaving a muddy streak across her fair skin.

"We may know which herbs to pick, which roots to boil," Caffrawen said slowly, picking her words with extreme delicacy, "but there is more to healing than that, and there are few who possess the knowledge of, or even have such abilities to help those more in need, like the Secondborn."

"I could work with the Secondborn!" Tarbereth said, but the resolution was draining from her features.

"My idea is that we could work with the Secondborn women - as warriors." The sentence, flatly stated, was out before she could word it differently. "Just as there is more to being a healer than knowing what herb goes where, there is more to being a warrior than swinging a sword or plucking a bow."

"You are _mad_, Caffra! Work with women - as warriors?"

"I think you will come to prefer the term 'comrades-in-arms' for this venture. We will train and fight side by side with the women of Elendil's camp." Caffrawen was done with referring to the future as something possible and now referred to it as the definite.

"Why?" Tarbereth had halted her harvesting, arms limp at her sides, and looked searchingly at Caffrawen.

"We _must_ fight. Every able-bodied person on legs is needed in this upcoming battle! We will do more good down in Mordor, clumsily swinging a sword, than staying here in Imladris with our herbs. I do not mean offense, Tarbereth," she said, endearing the _bess_ to her with courtesy, "You may very well be inclined to healing, and I cannot force such a decision on you. I do, however, want you to try the training."

Tarbereth rose to the challenge, steel clashing against steel. "And has King Gil-galad authorized this? Or King Elendil? This is folly, Caffrawen, and you know it!" Caffrawen would have cut her off, but Tarbereth continued, "What of the extra supplies needed for such a force? Are they being conveniently stowed away? _We would fail even before we staggered down to Mordor!_" For the moment, the marsh mallow had been forgotten.

Caffrawen drew a breath. If she could not overcome these most justifiable objections, there was no hope of her gaining Tarbereth's support, or anyone else's. 

"As for the supplies, what do you think we are gathering, Tarbereth? We do owe a good portion of that which we gather to Lord Elrond, but not all of it! It's only ever been convenient to give over all of our harvests to the Lord, because we had no further use for it. Now that we will be traveling and fighting, _that _form of normalcy changes. Depending on how many join this force, each can help gather supplies for the group." She paused for emphasis. "As for Gil-galad and Elendil, what can they do about a regiment that is intent on following them to Mordor. They'd not kill us, nor would they have any way of keeping us here. If they think that they can outpace us, they forget the size of their combined armies. In short, Tarbereth, there is _nothing_ they can do that can stop us from following and fighting at their side, and I want you and the other _bess_ and women to be among them." 

By some miracle, she had kept her voice even.

The silence between them stretched interminably. The chattering of the _bess_ around them continued, as did the roaring of the Bruinen, and the distant sounds associated with military camps. Caffrawen found that Tarbereth's challenging stare had a certain heat to it, as if she was attempting to stare blankly into the Feanorian's _fea_ and examine her ideas.

"When?" The word hung between them, charged with potential. Caffrawen blinked, seeing the colors around her become suddenly vibrant, her senses suddenly sharpened at the realization that the first part of her tentative plans was falling into place. She swallowed quickly to mask the sudden dryness in her throat.

"I'll let you know. Soon, within the next few days, I'd say. Would you do me a favor and spread the word discreetly among the unmarried or childless _bess_?" She bit the inside of her cheek, hoping that Tarbereth would not suspect her of using her as a recruiter.

"I could do that," Tarbereth said slowly, regarding her own recruiter through slitted eyes, "but I do have one question that only you can answer."

Caffrawen inclined her head, feeling more confident by the moment. "Fire away."

"What do you think our chances of survival are?"

The strange pressure in her head was now identifiable as the blood pounding in her ears. The beat continued, pounding the unmistakable rhythm of fear and shame.

She stalled for time. "Do you mean among the fighting females or the Last Alliance as a whole?"

"Either. Both." 

The beat in her ears abruptly stopped, but the drop she felt in her stomach kept up the pace of the rhythm until her heart resumed its pace. Much would depend on this response.

"I admit that I do not have intelligence on the strength or abilities of Mordor. At this point, my guess is the same as everyone else's - that since we are sending out our full strength, that Sauron's armies must be close to or exceed our own forces in number."

"A nice answer that tells me very little." Caffrawen flushed, her cheeks burning so hot that she wondered if half the blood in her extremities hadn't rushed to her face. "I could tell for myself that this is our last chance to hold claim to Middle-Earth."

"Whether we survive or not is immaterial, Tarbereth. We can fight Orc - I've done so…"

"You fought at the last need. As _bess_ normally do."

"_I am tired of being the last line of defense!_" Caffrawen surprised herself with the force of her exclamation, but continued in the same torrent. "D'you know what it's like to sit in wait for death? To know that there is no point in running - they'll catch up with you! To see them come over the horizon and know that all that stands between yourself and them is a single wall of stone? To watch family and friends die in agony while Death himself leers at you? Nay, in this case we are left in the hardest position - _the position in which_ _there is no hope!_"

The backlash of her speech momentarily shocked the both of them into silence. Thankfully, the other _bess_ had moved on, out of general hearing distance. 

If either of them had cared to remember history at that moment, they would have realized that Caffrawen was emulating a past ancestor - Feanor, the one ancestor she and Celebrimbor had wanted nothing to do with. 

When his Silmarils had been stolen by Morgoth, who carted them away to Middle-Earth, the Noldorian Elves had given the jewels up for lost, convinced that defeating Morgoth and his forces were too much for Elves that had no true combat experience. Yet Feanor had been undeterred, stirring the crowds of Noldor into righteous indignation at the wrongs they had suffered, moving them with such force of will, he had even managed to convince them to do the unthinkable act of Kinslaying to those Elves who had stood in their path to Middle-Earth. Even the wise and far-seeing Galadriel had been beguiled by Feanor's words.

In his oration, the Noldor had felt the stirrings of something grand, something enormous, beyond themselves. He touched their pride as the Firstborn, with a responsibility towards their younger kin, appealed to their sense of justice, in which both he and they had been severely wronged. He quickened the blood of those who had been longing for adventure, reminding them of their need to explore and experience new things, without the Valar's perpetual involvement, interference, and inaction. Feanor woke within the Elves the desire to cast off what they previously deemed enjoyable, to see if the new lands of Middle-Earth might prove more to their liking.

What had happened to the Noldor was similar to what was happening to Tarbereth now. Her heartbeat increased, she thought of friends that had been lost in raids, Elves stumbling into Imladris, their homes razed, the Elves themselves only wrecks and ruins of the characters they had once been, and she felt a tingling anger pulse through her at the faceless Enemy that had so torn at the fabric of Elvish society.

In the deepest places within her heart and mind, she pictured herself in the circumstances that Caffrawen had illustrated. In her horrified mind's eye, Imladris was being sacked by dribbling, graceless Orcs that swarmed up the steps into the main houses of Imladris, the Bruinen providing an easy guide straight to the beautiful Elven home. She heard the screams of her friends, the grinding and groanings of torture, the Elflings…

Imladris was set afire, its inhabitants dead, the Bruinen poisoned, and not all the scrubbing in the world could clean its pristine white marble now. Middle-Earth, the beautifully wild land that her kin had died to protect, was ruined and smoking, the land subjugated under the dominion of Evil, merely the stepping-stone of Sauron before he assaulted blissful Valinor. The images stopped as her nerve endings registered pain, and dimly, Tarbereth recognized the pain of her own nails digging into the flesh of her palms. 

Then, of course, there came a certain irritation with the _benn_, at their wish that the _bess_ not accompany them into battle. Why, there was every reason for a childless _bess_ to examine the path of the warrior! Not all were suited to practice the arts of destruction rather than renewal or construction, but they should try, at least once.

"Caffra?" Her voice was a bit shaky to her own ears, and she looked up to meet the stormy grey eyes of the Feanorian.

"Aye?"

"You have yourself a novice warrior. I will give it a try."

Caffrawen grinned as she pried her legs from the grasping mud, and then extended a hand to help Tarbereth out. 

"That's all that I ask. Come on, let's wash up." And so they strode to the Bruinen, looking as if each had decided to wear long brown stockings to make up for the fact that their skirts were knotted about their waists.

***

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Background Music: 'Beautiful Mehindi' from Xena: Warrior Princess, Vol. 4, Track 17

When the time is ripe for a dried thistle casing to break apart, it is rarely only a single action that causes it to break apart, rather, a host of different factors are responsible for making it burst, spreading the seeds of potential across the plain.

First, a breeze nudges it with teasing gentleness. It is soon followed by a stronger breeze that rattles the contents within the husk. An animal brushes past it, bending and cracking delicate casing fibers. Rain weights it down, straining the once tough thistle pod to the limits of its fragility. A final buffet from the wind, and the thistle pod can stand it no longer.

It bursts open, yielding to exterior forces, and liberates a million downy white seeds.

In such a manner was the matter of a secret legion of women and _bess_ handled in Imladris. Faithful to her word, Tarbereth began to whisper the summons as soon as she returned to the Imladris kitchens. Using the arguments that had been crafted to bring her own self over to Caffrawen's way of thinking, she spoke first to the _bess_ stirring the stew, to the one sorting stacks of rye flour, to the two that were weeding the carrot patch. She was met first with disbelief, then indignation, intense scrutiny, a grudging silence, then left with a promise to attend at least the first meeting. 

It started small, with a whisper in the kitchens. From the kitchens, it spread to the storage rooms, to the gardens, to the chambers within. It could be found in a back hallway, lurking in the herb gardens, crouching in a corner of the stables, taking its leisure on a balcony. It frequented the maidens' chambers, the groups that gathered herbal remedies in the woods, and places in the kitchens where the normal clatter of crockery drowned out its sound. 

As this was happening in Imladris, something very similar was breezing its way through the pavilions and tents of Elendil's camp. Benefited by having three to start it off instead of one, it spread easily throughout the tents, gaining support by the hour. 

It rippled in the women's section, worrying the canvas tenting. It passed between the soldiers' tents, carried by camp-followers in perfumed hands as they spoke among themselves during brief respites in the cool night air. By dinner-hour, it had taken up permanent residence among the cooking-fires and washing-tubs, crouched beside the smoky heat or bent over the scrubbing boards. Insinuating its way through the camp with greater speed than a galloping horse, the seeds of hope had been spread.

Naimi couldn't wait to tell Caffrawen.

***

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Background Music: ' Hail Xena' from Xena: Warrior Princess, Vol. 1, Track 25.

The wooden blades clashed once more in the waning sunlight, the only point of contact between the two combatants that eyed each other cautiously as they moved in a dance of skill and survival. They had been practicing for nearly two hours, and the gentle sliding of the sun below the horizon had escaped their notice.

Within Caffrawen's mind, there was no conscious thought, no inner voice that addressed her in any spoken language. There was only instinct. The flimsy wooden sword in her hand became an extension of her arms, moving out from her body in sure, confident strokes, while Elimani's skill and tactics were being assessed. 

Elimani gritted his teeth, attempting to maintain the ideal warrior's blank visage. He was coming at her in long chopping motions, mimicking the skills of most Orcs, who enjoyed sneaking in cuts to the side, attempting to impale their prey with their hooked blades. She toyed with him a bit, defending herself from his attacks in a timid display, throwing him off his guard as she maneuvered him gently so that his back was to a long stony outcropping. Pebbles skittered around their feet as the combatants stepped gracefully in this dance, one believing that he was leading, the other leading and manipulating.

Elimani was more confident now, attempting to gain ground and discomfit her by forcing her backwards. Caffrawen, however, was ready and waiting, parrying each of his moves with powerful cuts, moving much faster than their established rate, discomfiting Elimani and forcing him to give ground. His eyes widened, aware now of why she had changed from a timid opponent to an aggressive attacker. 

Back, back she pushed him, till he was trapped between her and the stony outcropping. His attacks were tinged with a hint of desperation as he attempted to hack his way out of this vulnerable position. Caffrawen broke from her cold and passionless frame of mind long enough to feel a flash of triumph as she saw the opening she had been looking for. She reached for it, striking him lightly on the chest with her sword to indicate a hit, then, making certain that his main sword hand was firmly guarded beneath her own, and jumped on him, tackling him to the ground, raising a cloud of dust about the both of them. Moving with lightning speed, she knocked the sword from his hand and held her own blade against his throat.

"_Caffra! What in the name of Mandos and his Halls do you think you are doing!?_" Elimani's roar broke through the stillness of the evening air.

"Winning." It took all her restraint not to laugh at the expression, which, as it always did when he was cross, resembled a vexed eagle.

"Caffra, do you plan to wrestle every orc you come across to the ground like this?" he growled up at her from where she straddled him.

She couldn't resist. "Only the ones that are vaguely handsome."

"_Caffra!_"

"Only teasing," she said lightly, levering herself to her feet before extending a hand to help Elimani up. He took it, squeezing more tightly than she though necessary, but released her hand once he had gained his feet. 

"When you fight orc, take them out as quickly as possible. There were at least two openings where you could have done massive damage, but you didn't." He looked stern enough to be her father. 

"I didn't because I was looking for the opening to knock you over," she admitted candidly. 

Elimani now took the time to give her a second full perusal of his eyes. Her eyes were sparkling with energy, her body in frayed leggings and tunic was fairly quivering with unspent vigor. 

"What's happened? Some new _benn_ catch your eye?" His voice was unexpectedly sharp, and Caffrawen only then realized how much the good news from Tarbereth had affected her mood. From all reports, and from the expectant looks she received when passing other _bess_ in Imladris proper, the atmosphere of suppressed excitement was all-pervading. She had been a bit worried, earlier, when she had seen these same _bess_ speaking with the _benn_. They had all been warned to keep it a secret, but she worried about the ebullience of some of the more enthusiastic recruits. 

Now confronted with someone whom she wanted to be proud of her, she had sudden sympathy for the recruited _bess_ as she found herself in the same position. The difference in her situation, however, was that she needed to tell Elimani and win his support (and his influential connections.)

"May I talk frankly with you about something? I need your help." She held her arms loosely to her sides, a disarming gesture when combined with a wide-eyed look of innocence and vulnerability. He swallowed, and then sat down heavily, Caffrawen following to sit beside him. 

To her surprise, he heaved a sigh. "If you want me to send a message to him, I need his name." 

Caffrawen knitted her brow, giving his angular face a long perusal, looking for what remained hidden. "I think you misunderstand me. No, I don't have eyes for another _benn_ and want you to take a message."

"Oh."

"The truth is…well…I'm leading a secret regiment of women and _bess_ down to Mordor to fight with the Alliance, and I need you to find some more soldiers willing to train us."

"_What!_"

"I'm leading a-"

"I heard what you said. I just can't believe it." Elimani's face had gone rather pale, and he swallowed, once, twice, waiting for some denial. When he was met by silence and Caffrawen's averted gaze, he sighed heavily.

"Caffrawen, I don't care how you're going to accomplish this. I don't care about Gil-galad or Elendil's permission, I don't care about how you're going to make Mandos knows how many unskilled women and _bess_ work together, let alone train them."

Caffrawen kept her gaze on a pebble that made a dark spot in the sandy clearing. Elimani only ever used her full name when he was being serious. 

"What do you care about, then?" she ventured timidly, feeling less and less confident with each passing moment.

"I care about why."

She was silent for a moment longer, considering, and then began again. 

"Elimani, do you remember that final night nearly a millennia ago? When all hope had fled, and the knowledge that help would not arrive, and that it wouldn't be able to drive the enemy away? Do you remember being the last line of defense, hardly knowing how to use a sword?" Inwardly, she hated herself for rehashing what was terribly painful for them both. 

"Aye." In his statement, she could hear his anguish, his regrets, old fears that presented themselves anew, all the trauma that they had suffered through in those terrible final days.

"We were the last line of defense back then. Now, how do you think you would feel if all the armies were being called out, that the fate of our world rests on campaigns yet to be waged, and you are left behind to deal with the outcome? Imagine knowing that death is imminent, that nothing you can attempt will avert it, that all those who left are dead, and that your entire world will fall to Shadow. Go overseas? The Second-born don't have that option, and neither do I. Even if some of the remaining _bess_ make it to Valinor, it is only a temporary haven. Shadow will spread over all the world."

He was silent, so she continued, "Do you see, Elimani? Even if the numbers we contribute don't make much of a difference, we will at least be spared that terrible wait, spared that anguish and fear! Death will not come stealthily in the night, we will face it out in the open! Elimani," she said, and her voice was low, pleading for his approval, "Elimani, I don't want to sit idly in Imladris, waiting for either Gil-galad's armies or Sauron's. Neither do the women. Neither do the _bess_. I don't want to know that you are in trouble and not be able to do anything about it." 

She had poured her heart into a glass, it was now up to him whether or not to taste it.

He looked up at her, and there was a shadow of the familiar merry grin that used to always perch on his lips. 

"How many trainers do you need?"

Her heart exploded, and not with the same satisfaction of accomplishment as there had been with convincing Tarbereth. She could not name the warmth that enervated her limbs at his acceptance of her plans, and gave him a small grin of gratitude that she hoped conveyed all her sentiments to him adequately. He responded in kind.

"Won't know till morning. Numbers are still coming in from the women. Do you really think there are _benn_ willing to train _bess and_ women?"

"There are a few discreet and skilled personalities in the ranks that I've become acquainted with in recent times. I'll talk them up tomorrow, see about their dispositions. Wine?"

"Was I whining…oh, I see your meaning." Elimani had pulled out a leather flask from beneath his rucksack and was pouring the ruby liquid into two small glasses.

"I had originally brought them out to celebrate the fact that you were now at the same skill level as I in sword-fighting, but I think a better toast would be to your new regiment, Commander," he said playfully as he handed her a glass. Caffrawen was silently amazed at his easy acceptance of such a momentous event, but then, given their history, momentous was eaten with breakfast every day. Then she realized the full import of what he was saying.

"Elimani, what are you saying? First of all, you're leagues ahead of me in practice, and second, I am not this regiment's Commander."

He gave her a steadying glance, then pointed at the basket beside her leg. Reluctantly she opened it and fished out thinly sliced rye bread, chicken, and hard-won mountain cheese. The silence stretched on interminably while she distributed these items, watching as he took the chicken and cheese, folding them into the bread, waiting for his answer.

Elimani chewed thoughtfully in the pregnant silence. "Caffrawen, there's no need for flattery. I am very well aware of my skill level in swordplay. And if you're worried that my sentiments are hurt or my elfhood* impugned, you should well remember that I was _always_ better than you at Smithing. Now that that skill's gone, if we survive this, I may take up farming…but enough of that. I'd actually enjoy seeing you improve in skill level, if it would get you out of my hair," he said, softening the last comment with a disarming smile. 

"Remember, you are a Feanorian. Not everything that you inherited from your family spells trouble." He took another long bite, writing the words he would speak in the pages of his mind.

"And Caffra, how can you not think that this regiment will look to you for guidance? You started it, after all, and have done a fairly good job of organizing it. If the Alliance lets you in, the regiment's not going to enjoy taking orders from those that didn't want them there in the first place. You're organizing this little venture, so you can't bow out now, not when you've raised the hopes of so many."

All of the sudden, at Elimani's words, Caffrawen could see the long struggle before her. She had anticipated such, yes, but now as she ground into the details that would hamper her, she realized that there was no way out now. She was going to Mordor, to fight. Strangely enough, this did not frighten her, but made the situation a bit surreal, the colors of the landscape swimming a moment before settling to new positions in light of this discovery. She nodded, a bit chastised.

"How about that toast, Elimani?"

He raised his glass. "To the new regiment!"

Caffrawen raised her own glass. "To the death of Sauron!"

The glasses chimed musically against the roaring of the Bruinen in the background.

***

Late that night, Caffrawen woke to an odd noise coming from the balcony she shared with several other _bess_. Slipping from the sheets, she padded on noiseless feet to the balcony opening. 

Peering out from the arch, she could see a _bess _engaged in some odd dance…no…not a dance, but the practice of swordplay, rather clumsily, but dangerous nonetheless. This was no child acting out motions gathered from casual observation of soldiers, but the practice of an art whose artist knows that they will rise or fall on this performance.

The _bess_ whirled around once, long golden curls swirling as she parried her invisible foe. _Giliath_. 

She was wielding a broom handle, jabbing here and there, movements unpracticed, but her intensity evident.

Caffrawen smiled and withdrew, her heart lightened and encouraged, the responsibility she had so casually assumed lessening a bit of its heavy weight on her shoulders.

The next morning, she strolled down to the Bruinen after the cooking of the morning meal had been cleaned away, and she could excuse herself with a load of wash down to the Bruinen.

She looked for the ash tree, and finding, had to look again to believe her eyes.

__

There were four pieces of quartz.

***

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Canon Explainations:

*Caffrawen could not speak Morgoth's name because she was a Noldor Elf, one of those that hated Morgoth with such intensity that they could not speak his name.

*Marsh mallow is a pink-flowering herb that grows in boggy areas, and is used to make an ointment that soothes irritated skin.

*Why can Elves walk on snow and not on mud? Snow in its molecular state is a solid, but mud in a gooey viscosity is more liquid than solid. Since Elves cannot walk on water, I would assume that they would have to trudge through the muck like everyone else.

* Elfhood in the sense of 'manliness', 'masculine behavior', or 'male pride'. Not what you were thinking!

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Canon Deviations: 

- There is no mention or hint in Tolkien's works of a female regiment getting its start in Imladris.


	9. That Which Remains Unspoken

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"...But my heart is still proud. What wrong did the golden house of Finarfin do that I should ask the pardon of the Valar, or be content with an isle in the sea whose native land was Aman the Blessed? Here I am mightier."

"What would you then?" said Celebrimbor.

"I would have trees and grass about me that do not die - here in the land that is mine," she answered. "What has become of the skill of the Eldar?" 

And Celebrimbor said: "Where now is the Stone of Earendil? And Enerdhil who made it is gone." 

"They have passed over Sea," said Galadriel, "with almost all fair things else. But must then Middle-earth fade and perish for ever?"

"That is its fate, I deem," said Celebrimbor. "But you know that I love you (though you turned to Celeborn of the Trees), and for that love I will do what I can, if haply by my art your grief can be lessened." ...Therefore he took thought, and began a long delicate labour, and so for Galadriel he made his second greatest work, the Elessar.

-from 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn'

The Unfinished Tales

****

Chapter Eight: That Which Remains Unspoken

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Ost-in-Edhil, 1300, _Second Age_

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Background Music: Xena: Warrior Princess, Volume Four, Track 13 "Welcome to India"

Caffrawen threw her hammer down, not for the first time that season. 

There was so much to do, before they could even do anything!

Annatar had set them all to work the moment Celebrimbor consented to allow him to stay within the city, tasking them all with various tools and machinery that seemed to have some vague purpose of which Caffrawen did not currently understand. For the first fifty years, she had been involved with her acid etchings, taking the brunt of the normal workload with the other more junior members of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. The 'Project', as it was unofficially called, was only known to the members of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, the Lord and Lady of Ost-in-Edhil, Lord Annatar, and (unofficially) to Lady Celebrian.

That left Caffrawen and the other junior Gwaith-i-Mirdain with the task of explaining to the uninitiated smiths why their workload had increased exponentially. They also had to explain to those smiths why they were suddenly pushed to perfect higher levels of skill in a shorter amount of time.

Caffrawen's method of acid etching was proving to be a timesaver for such pressed jewel-smiths, and she had taken on several students in order that the skills might be propagated. Though she'd balked at first at letting other smiths invade the privacy of her workshop on a regular basis, with time she had settled to the task and even begun to enjoy it. 

Classes were not only held in Caffrawen's workshop. Though she taught two hours' worth of mineral classification and quantitative analysis in the mornings, and three hours' worth of acid etching in the afternoons, other teachers were asked to take their place. 

Maltast led (with varying degrees of quietly expressed enthusiasm on a day-to-day basis) an afternoon class on simple mechanical construction. Erynloth taught a class on alloy production and various methods of casting in the afternoon. Darvi, though much beleaguered by his students to elaborate on his lectures, led a successful class in forging technique. Even Elimani taught, and his afternoon and morning classes on gem-cutting were purported to be highly animated and amusing.

Since the amount of time devoted to classes had to take into account that most students would be involved with crafting their own simple creations or completing tasks to aid production, students could take no more than two classes per year. One topic highly debated in the regular meetings of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain was whether the successful completion of all classes would constitute admission into the brotherhood.

Where before she had once lectured, Caffrawen was finding that it was easier to demonstrate while she was talking to her students, to better hold their attention and to allow them to see the technique that she used. So much of smithing was better learned by doing and seeing than listening! For her quantitative analysis classes, she regularly tested their knowledge by preparing several dishes of unmarked powders and minerals for them to test and classify.

One day of the week saw the entire Smithing Quarter gathered together to view the 'new' inventions and theories of the elder Smiths. As a member of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, Caffrawen was privy to the knowledge that such inventions were decades old, but had been put aside for the crafting of jewels and working of iron. 

The one dark spot in the flowering of knowledge and creativity that had come to pass in Ost-in-Edhil was the fact that it could be owed to the always-lingering Lord Annatar. Caffrawen had managed to keep him out of her workshop while her students were present, on the flimsy excuse that his presence distracted them. In reality, her students were well-focused, and it was the teacher distracted by Annatar's presence.

He attended all meetings of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, with the understanding that it was a matter of complete secrecy. Annatar's attendance had been hotly debated in the brotherhood, but in the end, it was Celebrimbor who had final say. 

Annatar continually set her on edge with his mere presence, those roving dark eyes making her uneasy and uncertain at meetings. He continually sat at Celebrimbor's side, rarely taking the floor to speak, but always murmuring something to her cousin that would have him speaking out minutes later.

Still, Annatar had done nothing out of line in the years since he had first arrived at Ost-in-Edhil. He remained a model citizen, and had taken up quarters in the eastern wing of the city. Caffrawen avoided him as best she could and made certain that Celebrimbor always heard the opinion of the rest of the brotherhood when they were home together - or else he didn't get his supper. 

Between the teaching, the crafting, and the relationship with her cousin that had become more diplomatic than filial, Caffrawen had precious little time to spar with Elimani as they used to. Much of their time together was now spent discussing classes rather than gossip or ideas. Actually, as head scribe, Elimani had been working overtime for years to transcribe the various notes produced by zealous smiths that wrote notes as badly as they turned out new inventions quickly. 

When Celebrimbor had suggested to Elimani that a good answer to the requests for extended manuscripts made by students, other smiths, and other interested parties would be to create several tomes of each, Caffrawen witnessed an overstressed side to Elimani that she'd never before seen. Luckily for Celebrimbor, she'd been standing next to Elimani at the time and was able to restrain him from strangling the Master Archival of Ost-in-Edhil, later taking him out to a tavern for a night of wine to soothe the scribe's nerves.

She also neglected to tell Elimani that she'd been planning her own manuals on mineral classification and analysis.

To answer the problem, Elimani had turned not to increased manpower, but to mechanics. While the name 'impression maker' did not quite suit the ingenious contraption, it was fast on its way to becoming the answer to Elimani's problems. 

Caffrawen was currently engaged in a tedious task for the completion of Elimani's impression maker, but it was a task that she would trust to no other. Not for the first time, she wondered why the region of Eregion steadfastly kept in use the _Angerthas Moria_*, when the rest of the world used Tengwar* script. Since she needed to make about three hundred copies of each rune or letter, this added up to twenty-eight thousand and eight hundred individual letters that she had to craft to be used as 'stamps' on the impression maker. This number did not include the hundreds of _tehtar* _that Maltast had crafted for the Tengwar script.

Unsurprisingly, she had turned to casting from pre-set molds to finish the job. Fortunately, the 'stamps' were small in size, so on a good day, she could complete about a hundred of them. Finervenn and Agladir had also been enlisted to help her with this monumental task. Though it had taken them about a year, all three were in the finishing stages of the letters and runes. 

Caffrawen was finishing the final fifty '_ure_'* that were needed from the Tengwar script, while Agladir and Finervenn were completing the final one hundred '&' from the _Angerthas Moria_ runes. 

It was only that the final '_ure_' had come out crooked. Which led to her current frustration with her hammer. She was so close...there was no way she was recasting this last one!

Grasping her tongs, she snatched up the final print and thrust it back into the flames, watching carefully for the telltale signs that it was ready to be re-hammered into submission. 

Judging it ready, she began to tap firmly on the recalcitrant piece of metal. When it was finally in the appropriate cube shape, she thrust it into the cooling trough, listening to the satisfying hiss of steam as her last print was completed. 

Setting it down to allow it to cool further beside its mates, Caffrawen dipped a rag into the cooling trough, wringing it out and using it to wipe her sweating face. She held it against her forehead a moment, savoring the coolness, then dipped it once more into the trough and placing it around the back of her neck. 

"Lady Caffrawen?" The greeting came from the doorway. She knew who it was, and spoke before turning her head to her guest.

"What can I do for you, Tarvi?" she said, breaking into a slow grin as she turned around.

"I am at your service," the son of Darvi said, substituting a small nod of the head for a doffed hood or helmet. Caffrawen composed her face and stood to face him. Tarvi was still young enough to hold to decorum and proper manners with the tenaciousness of a dog on a piece of rawhide*.

"I am at yours and your family's," she replied, completing the proscribed Dwarvish greetings. She noted that the Dwarf immediately relaxed his rigid posture, his blue eyes twinkling. Tarvi was currently one of her best students in her mineral classification and quantitative analysis class, the best, if she was honest with herself. Attempting to teach a Dwarf about minerals was like attempting to teach an Elf to walk on snow - redundant. 

"That is good to know," he said, smiling, "For I am in need of it."

"Don't tell me you have a question," she said, grinning. "Not my best student!"

"Not about minerals, that is for certain," Tarvi retorted, enjoying the repartee. "About Lord Annatar."

Caffrawen immediately sobered. "What has he done?" she asked gravely.

"It's not what he's done, it's what he wants to do. He's been getting on to Master Celebrimbor and the Lord and Lady about taking a trip down to the Dwarrowdelf."

"Whyever would he do that? And why is he asking the Master and the Lord and Lady? Surely he knows that such things fall under your father's jurisdiction." Caffrawen was perplexed. 

"No one knows the why. But they do know that the Master wants him to ask my father, and the Lord and Lady are all for him just leaving to go down to the Dwarrowdelf and ask for himself."

"Do you know where Master Celebrimbor is right now?" she asked, beginning to feel uneasy. 

"They...er...my father and Master Celebrimbor went to a tavern to talk things over," Tarvi said a bit embarrassed. 

"We won't see them till past midnight," she confirmed, giving the young Dwarf a knowing wink. 

"And Lord Annatar?" she pressed.

"After he left council with Master Celebrimbor and the Lord and Lady, I thought he went back towards his quarters. Father told me to report back to him who had been to the Lord and Lady's, and for what purpose," Tarvi related. 

"I take it you are acquainted with the Lady Celebrian and her spy-chamber?" she asked him dryly, registering his surprise. When he started to sputter she raised a hand to halt his protestations. 

"Lady Celebrian and I watched the first meeting between Lord Annatar and the Lord and Lady before you were born," she said by way of explanation. "I would not reveal to your father or Master Celebrimbor your knowledge of Celebrian's spy-chamber. Or the Lord and Lady, for that matter."

Tarvi drew himself up a bit indignantly. "Both the Lady Celebrian and I were highly interested in what was said at that meeting, so I agreed to keep the secret. I have not yet even told my father of the content of the council, and I do not intend to, since the Master is undoubtedly filling him in as we speak."

"So why did you come to me?" Caffrawen asked shrewdly.

"The Lady Celebrian thought that if I was to tell anyone, it should be you. Probably because you already knew about the spy-chamber," Tarvi finished.

"Indeed. So what passed between them?"

"A very roundabout conversation. Lord Annatar asked the permission of the Lord and Lady to visit the Dwarrowdelf. They granted it with no hesitance. Master Celebrimbor halted them, saying that the matter was under the jurisdiction of my father. Lord Celeborn pointed out that my father was chief liaison of the Dwarves to Ost-in-Edhil, and therefore had no say in the matter. Master Celebrimbor wished my father to at least be apprised of Lord Annatar's intentions. Lord Celeborn pointed out that once Lord Annatar was beyond the borders of Eregion, he was free to do as he liked, until he came to the Gates of the Dwarrowdelf, when he would have to beg entrance as much as any stranger. Master Celebrimbor wanted my father to at least know about and send along an authorization and blessing as someone who could vouch for him. Lord Celeborn pointed out that the Dwarves were capable of determining this by themselves, and the decision wasn't my father's. Then...it just kept going in circles, until Annatar spoke up, saying that his trip was not that vitally important to warrant such disharmony between the leaders of the city and its craftmaster. He only wanted to know if he could."

Caffrawen nodded, digesting this. "Did Lord Annatar or Lady Galadriel speak much during this debate?"

"Hardly at all, Lady." Tarvi paused, looking most uncomfortable. Dwarves did not usually engage in such intrigues, preferring open, honest, direct forms of communication with one another. "The Lady Celebrian asked me to tell you that she believes Lord Annatar never intended to go to the Dwarrowdelf in the first place, and that she and her mother both are uneasy."

Caffrawen allowed herself an ironic smile. "These times are uneasy for us all."

"What do I do now, Lady Caffrawen? Master Celebrimbor is undoubtedly telling my father all that I heard, so my information is useless to him," Tarvi asked.

"To him, perhaps, but quite valuable to me. I will speak to the Master later on, make certain that the Gw-the other smiths have a say in this matter," she stated, unnerved at the fact that she'd almost let slip the fact of the hidden brotherhood to this uninitiated smith.

"In the meantime, just keep this information to yourself. And don't forget to...escort...Lord Darvi home later tonight, in the same fashion that I will Master Celebrimbor," she said amusedly.

"Indeed," Tarvi said, his eyes twinkling once more. "Since I have no further questions about where best to find sulfur deposits, I shall take my leave of you and wish you a glad afternoon."

"A glad afternoon to you, Tarvi," she returned. "You have my gratitude for pointing out the additional locations."

When Darvi had left, Caffrawen was left alone with her thoughts. _This is a tangled mess! Since when was permission needed to go to Dwarrowdelf?_

Was that it? Celebrian had mentioned that she did not think Annatar had ever intentioned to go to Dwarrowdelf. Was Annatar sowing discord between the normally harmonious leaders of Ost-in-Edhil? Granted, the relationship between Celebrimbor and Celeborn was strained for a reason that she could not fathom, but they normally worked for the betterment of their peoples.

But why would Celebrimbor insist on Darvi being consulted? Celeborn had the right of it, Darvi was a liaison of the Dwarves to Ost-in-Edhil, a good person to consult before journeying to the Dwarrowdelf, but not essential. Galadriel and Celeborn were the ones to ask if one wanted to journey beyond Eregion. She set that problem aside for the moment, and decided to present the situation to Elimani, and gain his insight. If Maltast and Agladir were there as well, so much the better.

Scooping her cooled '_ure_' stamps into a reinforced rucksack, she walked out of the workshop, but not without securely locking the door. One could never be too careful these days.

***

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Background Music: Xena: Warrior Princess, Volume One, Track 15 'Goodbye' 

The shrieking of metal and Elimani's curses met her ears long before she made it to the door of his workshop.

Entering without invitation, Caffrawen looked with admiration at the impression maker that Elimani was currently bent over and fiddling with. A long wooden table formed the base of the construction, with a tall wooden frame rising from either side at its center. A wide metal screw was secured at the top of the frame to hang downwards, where it had been joined at its end to a large counterbalancing weight. This weight, in turn, was attached to a removable metal frame that would hang from the weight in a parallel fashion to the table above which it was centered*.

"Where's the problem?" she asked casually, observing him with amusement.

Elimani gave a start, then turned his head back to glare at her. "This!" he cried, pointing at the lever, which was supposed to raise and lower the metal frame from the screw. "Damned thing stopped working an hour ago, and I can't get it to budge an inch."

Caffrawen gave the joint of the lever an appraising look. "Have you tried Darvi's new joint-grease? That stuff would make ice look sticky in comparison."

"Darvi has a new joint-grease?" Elimani looked a bit surprised at the information. 

"He introduced it briefly at last week's gathering. I think you were in here."

"Where else have I been for the past few years?" Elimani spat. Caffrawen looked more closely at him, observing his condition. The circles under his eyes spoke of little sleep, even for so sleepless a creature as an Elf. His normally shining black hair was shinier than usual - due to grease, and not the type he needed for his machine.

"I've some in my workshop, I'll bring it directly," she reassured him, sensing his dark mood, and wondering how long it had hung over him. "But first, there's something imp...something serious going on between the Lord and Lady and Celebrimbor."

To her dismay, he looked even more annoyed. "Spit it out, then."

"Annatar's causing trouble. He first said that he wanted to go down to the Dwarrowdelf, and wanted the permission of Darvi and the Lord and Lady. The Lord and Lady bid him go at once, and Celebrimbor asked that Darvi be consulted first. Celeborn said that Annatar did not need Darvi's permission or blessing to leave. They argued these points until Annatar said that the trip was not so necessary, and that he merely wanted to know if it was possible," she said in a rush. 

"So?" he said, clearly more interested in the impression maker.

"_So_...how much would you wager that Annatar never intended to go to the Dwarrowdelf? Why is Celebrimbor suddenly all for the Dwarves being consulted before anyone goes from here to the Dwarrowdelf? Why the sudden tension between tension between Celebrimbor and Celeborn, and why does Annatar want to further it?"

"I could answer your last question, but I won't. Are you certain you're not beginning to see things where they aren't?" 

Elimani's diffident manner was beginning to anger her, and she allowed it to show.

"Perhaps if you moved from this room once a month, you'd notice what's happening around you. Aren't you the tiniest bit unnerved by Annatar's rise in influence?"

"Perhaps if you started working on one of his projects instead of trying to undermine him all the time, you'd see the benefits we're reaping!" Elimani was openly angry, putting down the tool that he had unknowingly been gripping.

"If it's escaped your notice, I've been keeping up with the normal commissions and the teachings _and_ helping you with this blasted impression maker." With more force than was necessary she swung the bag of '_ure_'s into his open hands, catching him in the stomach.

"Perhaps if you'd lost someone or something you cared about to Sauron, you'd realize why I work as I do. But no, your family destroyed itself without any help from Sauron or his minions!"

Caffrawen flinched visibly.

That hurt. Especially coming from one who regarded her bloodline as harmless. She wanted to flare at him, but this cut too deeply. Too late, she realized that it was showing on her face, and masked it in an icy glaze of composure. 

"There are the last of your _Tengwar_ letters. If you need Darvi's joint-grease, I suggest you ask Maltast for some," she said quietly. Turning her back to him, she left the workshop in a fouler mood that she had entered it with.

***

Her mood was not improved later that night, when she realized that she still needed to escort her cousin home from whichever tavern he had landed himself in. Celebrimbor was no sot, like so many Elves, he enjoyed rousing evenings full of song and wine. She might have even joined him, had her mood not been so dark. 

Caffrawen entered _The Holly Bush_ tavern, knowing that it was one of her cousin's favorite establishments, and that their red wines were exceptionally potent. A quick glance about the place revealed none but two Dwarves well into their mugs, and a few scattered Elves marking the lateness of the hour with songs. The interior of the tavern was clean, despite its long use, festooned year-round with holly branches and blazing fires.

Catching the eye of the tavern's owner, Glilam*, she ambled over towards the _bess_ who was currently engaged in sealing a barrel of Dwarvish ale.

"Evening, Caffrawen!" she said brightly. "Come to try my best whites?"

"Morning, actually," she replied, "And no, unfortunately. Has my cousin been in at all tonight?"

"Over there, by the fire," the bustling _bess_ replied, pointing out Celebrimbor's dark shape in a corner. "Poor dear, Darvi left an hour ago, and he's just sat there ever since."

"Did they argue?" she asked quietly.

"Them? Not at all, I've never seen them exchange unfriendly words except when teasing each other," Glilam replied, pushing back her pretty brunette hair from where it had escaped the braid in back. 

"Ah. Thank you, then, and I'll be back sometime to try those whites," Caffrawen promised, her attention already elsewhere.

She approached Celebrimbor, observing him carefully. The slump of his shoulders spoke of some inner grief or burden, and Caffrawen hated to see him in such a state. He was still wearing the formal tunic he had worn to hold council with the Lord and Lady, and his fingers were laced together in his lap, his demeanor oddly quiet and depressive. Most times when he drank, he became more lighthearted and carefree, able to forget about the stresses of his daily life.

Caffrawen knelt at his feet, attempting to look up into the shadows of his face. "Celebrimbor?" she whispered.

He blinked, and flickered his eyes towards her. 

"Are you ready to go home?" she asked gently, taking one of his hands.

"I suppose," he replied, attempting to heave himself to his feet. He swayed, and Caffrawen was immediately there, supporting him with an arm around his waist. He steadied himself against her, and Caffrawen nodded to Glilam as they left. 

***

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Background Music: Xena: Warrior Princess, Volume One, Track 28 "Bloodlust"

He was uncharacteristically quiet as they stumbled home, head hanging and feet dragging somewhat.

No one was out and about on the streets of Ost-in-Edhil that late into the night besides the usual guard making his patrol, so they were able to get home relatively unhampered. Caffrawen pushed open the door and pulled him into his own room, guiding him to sit on his bed. 

Motherly, she brushed the hair from his face, passing her hand over his brow and half-expecting him to push her hand away. He did not, but leaned into the gentle touch, drowsy and clearly exhausted. 

"Celebrimbor?" she asked quietly, "Are you alright?"

"Just tired," he replied.

"You don't look okay. You look as if someone's smashed the Elessar."

Celebrimbor smiled crookedly at that, and to her great surprise, his face crumpled with the onset of tears. 

"Cousin?" Caffrawen was halfway between horror and terror - she had never seen Celebrimbor weep before, and could only imagine what warranted such a reaction. "What is it?"

He shook his head wordlessly, involved with his tears. Caffrawen gingerly guided his face to rest in the crook of her shoulder, and stroked his copper hair as he released whatever sorrows had multiplied over the course of the evening. 

They stayed in that position for many moments, until the heaves of Celebrimbor's chest slowed. Pulling the dampened locks of hair away from his face, she used the corner of his bedsheet to dry his face.

"What troubles you, my cousin?" she asked. "Tell me so that we may set it right."

"It is naught that I can act upon...and it will never let me go."

Caffrawen studied his face carefully. "What will not let you go?"

"Desire!" he choked out. "The desire that shakes and drives all members of our family...the desire for something that cannot and should not be attained."

"But you are rectifying our family's misdeeds," she said fervently, "That cannot be evil."

"Nay, nay. Were certain things different, this would be the grandest of all things...for then I would be certain of her forgiveness."

"Whose forgiveness? Is it forgiveness that you so desire so?" she questioned softly.

"No! I desire her love! And I can never have it!" Celebrimbor heaved a breath, as if the conversation was drawing all the strength out of him.

And suddenly she knew, and wondered why she had not connected the pieces before.

"The Lady Galadriel?" Caffrawen whispered.

Celebrimbor's head bowed in confirmation.

Caffrawen found that she suddenly had nothing to say. Moments passed, and Celebrimbor spoke in a low, urgent tone, betraying the depths of his feelings.

"When she took me in as I wandered, I thought it only gratitude that I looked up to her so. Very soon, I found that gratitude had little to do with it, and that looking upon her was beginning and end of my day. All, all I have worked was not to rectify our family's misdeeds...for that I am sorry, Caffrawen, but our efforts will do much to help that...it was so that, even married and with a child*, she might always look upon me with favor...see me first as her loyal and trusted friend, and not as some Feanorian miscreant she took in out of pity.

"Before I started making the Elessar, she complained that the House of Finarfin had committed no wrongs that warranted her having to beg the Valar's pardon. She wished to stay in Middle-earth...yet the continual death that occurs here disheartened her. I...I confessed my love of her, for I could sympathize with her predicament...about the Houses, I mean. I promised her the Elessar, to make her life here more pleasant, more steady. I wanted to help her create her domain...her paradise." 

Caffrawen was shocked at this candid outburst from her cousin. His purpose in life up till now she had thought was redemption...instead it was a hopeless love. He wanted Galadriel to equate him with her 'paradise' as it were.

"Why has this come to a head on today of all days?" she pressed further, smoothing his hair back behind the points of his ears.

"Annatar wanted to go down to the Dwarrowdelf...but he believed that such things needed leave from the smithing community and the leaders of the city. Cel...Celeborn just wants him out of the city...and would preempt Darvi's authority. Celeborn is trying to divide the Dwarves from the Elves!" he burst out.

Caffrawen nodded, several questions she had had that day getting their answers. "But Darvi has no authority in this case...only Celeborn and Galadriel may grant such leave. After all, they rule Eregion. But what has this to do with your love for the Lady Galadriel?"

"The Smiths rule in Eregion! Unofficially, but we do shape the fate of this city...and of Middle-Earth. I love her...oh! but I love her, and I do not wish to displease her in this matter. She must understand that the Smiths are the ones working in the best interests of Middle-Earth. Celeborn only hinders us in our aim, would divide us among ourselves," he continued, pausing for breath.

"It came to a head today because I have realized that she will follow Celeborn's lead in the matter of the Smithing Quarter's authority...and thus thinks me disloyal for wanting to subvert Celeborn's authority. I will never have her favor," he said morosely, long past tears.

"You have her favor, Celebrimbor. What did she say when you spoke of this to her?"

"She said little, save that she remarked to Celeborn that it might be expedient for Darvi to write a recommendation, though the final decision was hers and Celeborn's," he said hopefully.

Caffrawen nodded supportively. "Celebrimbor, listen to me. You have the Lady's favor, and her love as far as it can extend. But she is bonded to another, and one day, another will occupy the pedestal upon which Galadriel reigns."

He drew a deep sigh, accepting the inevitable truth of her words.

"What was it that Annatar wanted to go down to the Dwarrowdelf for?" she asked, attempting to confirm her suspicions.

Celebrimbor opened his mouth, then shut it with a perplexed look. "I can't rightly remember."

Nodding acceptance of this, she turned down the bedcovers, pulling off his boots as he lifted his legs onto the bed.

"Take off that jerkin," she ordered, "You'll sleep better without it." 

He did so, handing the stiff leather garment to her, which she folded and draped over a chair. Pulling up the bedcovers, wondering how she had gotten to be such a mother hen, she sat down on the bed next to his drowsing form.

"You're taking tomorrow off. I don't care what you've got planned, you can't keep drinking this off, even if the inimitable Darvi is your drinking companion. Go for a ride outside Ost-in-Edhil, spend the day sleeping, I don't care. But under no circumstances do you approach the Smithing Quarter, understood?"

"Yes, m'lady," he said, wine not doing a thing to dull his sense of irony.

"Good. Sleep well, I'll have the hangover herbs on your nightstand when you wake up." She kissed his brow, then watched protectively as he fell into an exhausted slumber.

*** 

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Background Music: Xena:Warrior Princess, Volume Six, Track 7 "Reality of Dreams" 

Caffrawen was all set to follow her cousin's example, setting the clarifying hangover draught on her cousin's nightstand, then stretched out her muscles and retired to her own room. 

As she entered, she spied a sheaf of paper laid atop her nightstand. Looking about uneasily, she glanced down to read the print...when she realized that it was, indeed, print! The letters were too uniform and thick to have come from a pen, and she realized that it was the work of Elimani, perhaps the first true printing he had made from the impression maker.

Heart thrumming rather faster than it should have, she read the printed script*.

__

Caffrawen - 

I do not know why I said what I did this afternoon, but I am sorry that I did so. My anger was not for you, but for circumstances beyond my control. 

Please forgive me, so that this impression maker will not be put solely to the use of writing my pleas of apology. That is all it seems good for at the moment.

Elimani

"Caffra?" Elimani's voice startled her before she'd even had time to react to the contents of the letter. He was at the window, and had clearly waited for her to arrive. The lines on his face and the circles about his eyes were still present, but she could tell that he'd taken the time to bathe and put on fresh clothes. 

"Elimani?" Later she reflected that if he had simply left the letter on her table instead of waiting for her to read it, she might not have forgiven him so easily. But upon reading the print letters and seeing the sincerity in his eyes, she could not help but bite back the insult she'd planned to lay upon him when next they met. 

"My first press-print," he said quietly, indicating the sheaf of light parchment in her hands. "What do you think?"

She met his eyes with her own. "I think it's beautiful." He dropped his eyes then, searching the ground for she knew not what. 

"Can we talk?"

She nodded briefly. "Give me a hand out the window. We'll wake up Celebrimbor if we stay here." She could have simply walked around through the front door, and banging pots together for all that Celebrimbor was likely to waken. Yet there was something in the way that his ink-stained hands closed over her own, in the way he gently disengaged one hand to grasp her waist as he pulled her from the open pane. 

There was something in the momentary silence after she had regained her feet that spoke of trust and feelings renewed by the action.

Elimani was the first to break it, taking a step back.

"I think the roof would suit our purposes," she said quietly, noting his demeanor and taking it into account as she showed him the crooks and nooks within the walls that allowed them to swing up gracefully onto the slate roof. Walking with ease on the slanted part of the roof, they settled themselves on the apex, tilting slightly so that they might see the other's face. It was a warm summer's night with no breeze to chill them. 

From their vantage point, Caffrawen could look out and see the dark forms of the Misty Mountains, rising in blue-black to contrast with the darkness of the night sky. It was not a clear night, clouds obscured many stars, but there was light enough for the Elves to see by, and the stars they could see were beautiful. 

She risked a glance at Elimani. He was also rapt in admiration of the stars, and of the nocturnal atmosphere.

"Something is wrong, Elimani. You've not been yourself, and I know it is not only that the impression maker has occupied your thoughts. "

He smiled at her ruefully, then looked past her to the south. "Perhaps I might have heeded your information with more care three months ago. But since then, I have been trying..._trying_ to help set things right in Middle-earth, and I can't help but think that Annatar is our key. We have improved so much in the brief time he has been here...doing things that might have otherwise taken us _centuries_ to even think of. What that will do for the defenses, and for these rings of power he's got planned, I don't know. But he's done nothing but help us since he got here."

"My loyalty is given to Celebrimbor, not Annatar. Yet if Celebrimbor chooses to follow Annatar's advice, I will follow Celebrimbor to the death," she responded. "Perhaps I still cling to my first impression of him fifty years ago. First impressions are the hardest to make good on."

"Believe me, I found that out while trying to make the letter for you. I think I should soak a sponge in ink, then let the press be lowered onto that, instead of attempting to brush the ink on by hand."

Caffrawen gave him a small smile for his cleverness. "But that's not it. What changed three months ago?"

Elimani seemed to shrink in on himself, his lean frame crumpling a bit. "Elimani?"

He drew a breath and exhaled loudly. "I received a missive three months ago from my mother on the border villages. Apparently, they'd been attacked by a band of orc...my father tried to help defend...he was gravely injured. To save him, Mother took him to Lindon...across the Sea. They could not wait for me to accompany him. I know not if Father survived the voyage, or..." he trailed off, and Caffrawen's heart clenched for the stoniness of his face that spoke of his anguish. 

"Elimani..." she let his name trail off into a whisper, so taken aback was she.

For the second time that night, she scooted close to a suffering _benn_, allowing his head to rest on her shoulder and her arm to wrap securely around his waist as they sat there, undisturbed.

After some time, she touched her fingertips to his cheeks in the same intimate gesture she had used with Celebrimbor, but they came back dry. 

"The time for tears is past," Elimani murmured quietly, "the time for action is now upon us."

"I think I understand now," Caffrawen replied in the same murmur, "I think I understand."

"Do you?" he whispered, readjusting his cheek on her shoulder so that his nose brushed the point where neck met collarbone. She automatically put a hand up to stroke his hair, quite forgetting the awkwardness that would have accompanied the gesture at any other time.

"I'm so sorry, Elimani," she whispered back. "But why didn't you say anything?"

He paused, considering. "I wanted no one to pity me...I wanted no one to coddle me and murmur inanities when the reality of the situation is that I have no way of knowing if my parents live."

"You could do with a bit of coddling," she replied, "although I won't fill your ears with those inanities. I don't pity you." She paused thoughtfully. "Except when I beat you in the first five minutes of a quarterstaff sparring match."

She felt him laugh, his chest moving as if in sobs against her, and began to chuckle herself. 

"Rest," Caffrawen murmured, "and take tomorrow off from duties. I am, and I'm forcing Celebrimbor to do the same. One day off in this madcap Smithing craze won't hurt anything, and I wager it will do us a wealth of good."

He was silent a long time, and Caffrawen prepared herself for a string of protests. Instead, she was surprised to find him reaching for her hand, surprised to find him pulling her into a proper hug.

"Thank you, Caffra. I'm so sorry about that slur on you family. I had no right..."

"Hush," she murmured into his hair, "it was accepted some time ago."

She allowed the hug to continue for some time longer, then tried to gently pull away from him when the embrace continued past the bonds of friendship. "Elimani?"

A soft snore greeted her. Caffrawen sighed. Moving as gently as possible, she maneuvered his head into her lap. He'd probably not gotten a good night's rest in several months, she wasn't about to deny him this comfort.

Instead, she watched the night fade and pass into the early morning, watched the stars that she could see travel across the sky, watched the gradual lightening of the world as the sun rose. She remembered the first time she had seen the proud city of Ost-in-Edhil, realizing the sight was nearly the same as the one she had witnessed nearly half a millennia hence. She watched the guards on their paces across the walls of Ost-in-Edhil, watched the face of her friend as he lay comfortably in her lap, watched the lines on his face relax and the dark circles beneath his eyes lighten.

She had held the two _benn_ closest to her in her arms that night, and heard their worst secrets and insecurities, had realized their reasons for pushing the march of technology through the Smith's Quarter. 

Now it came to it; would she follow Annatar? Celebrimbor thought so, Elimani thought so. Yet their true reasons for following Annatar prevented them from seeing what she had. She could not so easily stop watching Annatar through half-narrowed eyes, not stop continually wondering about his motives. 

She would follow Celebrimbor, to her death if need be. If following Celebrimbor meant following Annatar, so be it.

As long as she was able to keep an eye on Annatar while behind Celebrimbor, she was content.

***

*I'm aware that Caffra's a bit soppy in this chapter. Bonds must be forged so that they will hold true, any Smith could tell you that.

* The _Angerthas Moria_ was the 'alphabet' of Elvish runes used exclusively by the Elves of Eregion and the Dwarves of that area? Why? Well, it's kind of like the difference between the customary and metric systems of measurement in our world. See Appendix E in the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

*_Tengwar_ was the 'Feanorian' alphabet created by Feanor, Celebrimbor's grandfather. It was the more widely used writing system. See Appendix E

*_Tehtar_ are the little dots above the script of _Tengwar_ that indicate vowel sounds. This means that the _Tengwar_ letters are all consonants. Customarily in _Tengwar_, the _tehtar_ are placed above the following consonant. So if we wanted to write 'Elimani' in _Tengwar_, a _tehta_ would be placed above letter 27 to make the 'El' sound. The written form of Elvish is phonetic, and, to me at least, highly confusing.

* '_Ure_' is the Elvish word for heat, used as the name for letter 36, means 'heat'. Feanor gave the letters names other than phonetic sounds.

*For more information of Dwarvish mannerisms and proper greetings, see The Hobbit.

*I've modeled Elimani's 'impression maker' (printing press) after Gutenberg's original. I do believe the Elves are going through a Renaissance!

*Glilam means 'honey-tongue' or 'a sweet-talker'

*In some instances, Celeborn and Galadriel had a second child, a son named Amroth. Legolas sings of him in the 'Lay of Nimrodel' as Nimrodel's star-crossed lover. For reasons of simplicity, I have chosen to forget about Amroth, and let him chase Nimrodel eternally rather than mire him in my tale.

*I'm not certain, but I don't think that Elves had both capital and lowercase letters. I'm using both in the letter rather than having poor Caffra run back and cast another couple hundred printing stamps.

_Canon Deviations_

*Did the Elves attain such technology as a printing press during Annatar's revolutionary influence? I don't know, but it would be a logical step for Elimani the scribe.

*I'm leaving out Amroth from the storyline just because it's easier, and because not every tale includes him. I love the Professor, but he certainly changed his mind a lot.

*No debates such as the one between Celeborn and Celebrimbor were recorded, but the wedge must have been driven in at some point. I'm just hypothesizing.

__

No hearts were broken or epiphanies reached during the writing of this chapter. However, several Elves woke up with wicked hangovers. 


	10. Brief Words

Hello, to anyone who is still reading this,

I am aware that a year has passed since I have updated. I _will not _quit this story - I'm too fond of Celebrimbor and Elimani for that, and I love the people that I've met through the story. I apologize if you have been waiting, and I thank you for your patience.

That being said, I hope to have two or three chapters up in May, once my finals are over. I wrote the outline for this story some time ago, and I am sticking to it. With any luck, I may finish it by the end of the year.

Why have I not updated? Briefly, I can only say that journalism is not for the faint of heart, nor those who like to go to bed before 3am.

Regards,

The Power of the Book


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